UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


of. 


H.  G.  WELLS 

PERSONALITY  CHARACTER  TOPOGRAPHY 


H.  G.  WELLS 


H.    G.   WELLS 

PERSONALITY     CHARACTER     TOPOGRAPHY 


By 
R.   THURSTON   HOPKINS 


AUTHOR   OF 

"THOMAS   HARDY'S    DORSET" 
"  KIPLING'S    SUSSEX  "         ETC. 


With   Illustrations  by  E.  Harries 


NEW  YORK: 

E.   P.   BUTTON   &   CO 


Printed  in  Qreat  Britain 


PREFACE 

THE  present  volume  has,  I  am  fully  aware, 
no  claim  to  be  considered  a  complete  study 
of  all  the  writings  of  H.  G.  Wells,  for  the  pro- 
duction of  such  a  volume  would  demand  far 
more  time,  detail,  and  learning  than  have 
been  at  my  disposal.  My  object  has  simply  been 
to  present  a  portrait  of  Mr.  H.  G.  Wells  (it  is 
because  he  is  a  man  of  such  immense  importance 
and  not  for  want  of  courtesy  that  I  have  dropped 
the  "  Mr."  throughout  the  book),  and  to  present 
some  of  the  main  points  of  interest  in  his  life 
and  work  in  a  form  that  will  appeal  to  the 
"  man  in  the  street "  who,  like  myself,  may 
lay  no  claim  to  any  specialised  knowledge  of 
the  author,  but  who  nevertheless  is  desirous 
of  knowing  something  about  a  writer  who  looms 
so  big  and  ubiquitous  in  the  present  day  world 
of  letters. 

Such  success  as  I  may  have  achieved  in  this 
direction  is  due  in  no  small  measure  to  the 
kind  assistance  and  advice  which  I  have  received 
from  almost  all  whose  help  I  have  sought  in 
collecting  information  for  the  following  pages. 

Mr.  Geoffrey  H.  Wells  has  devoted  an 
abundance  of  time  and  trouble  to  assisting 


viii  PREFACE 

me,  especially  in  connection  with  the  chapter 
"  Early  Struggles,"  and  my  indebtedness  to 
him  is  such  as  to  call  for  the  most  unreserved 
acknowledgment.  I  must  also  thank  Mr.  Wells 
himself  for  his  courtesy  in  kindly  replying  to 
some  of  my  queries. 

I  wish  to  specially  mention  the  invaluable 
information  gathered  from  the  biographical  and 
critical  article  on  Wells  by  Thomas  Seccombe 
in  The  Bookman  (April,  1914) ;  also  "  The  Gay 
Defiance  of  H.  G.  Wells,"  by  E.  T.  Raymond ; 
"  The  Novelist  as  Prophet  "  (CasselVs  Saturday 
Journal,  April  26th,  1899) ;  "  If  Sanity 
Returned  "  (C.  F.  G.  Masterman,  Daily  News, 
September  14th,  1906) ;  "  H.  G.  Wells  "  (Francis 
Gribble),  Everyman,  June  19th,  1914  ;  "  Wells 
in  Washington,"  New  York  Times,  March  12th, 
1922  ;  "  Utopia  and  a  Comet,"  Daily  Chronicle 
(Hubert  Bland),  September  14th,  1906;  Ralph 
D.  Blumenf eld's  "  London  Letter "  in  New 
York  Town  and  Country,  February,  1921  ; 
"H.  G.  Wells  and  Julius  Caesar,"  John  O' 
London's  Weekly,  May  29th,  1920  ;  "  Passionate 
Friends,"  by  Ford  Madox  Hueffer,  Outlook, 
September  27th,  1913;  "Wells  on  Marriage," 
by  Rebecca  West,  Everyman,  November  8th, 
1912 ;  Richard  Curl  on  Wells,  Everyman, 
December  20th,  1912;  G.  B.  Burgin's  sketch 
of  Wells  in  The  Weekly  Sun,  June  3rd,  1899; 
"The  War  and  Socialism,"  by  H.  G.  Wells 
(Clarion  Press) ;  "  Will  Socialism  Destroy  the 


PREFACE  ix 

Home  ?  "  by  H.  G.  Wells  (Independent  Labour 
Party  Pamphlet) ;  "A  Reasonable  Man's 
Peace,"  by  Wells  (Daily  News  Pamphlet,  1917) ; 
"  Letters  of  Henry  James,"  Macmillan,  1920 ; 
"  The  Airship  as  a  Destroyer,"  by  Oakley 
Williams,  Pall  Mall  Magazine,  January,  1908. 
I  have  also  been  constantly  guided  by  Mr. 
J.  D.  Beresford's  scholarly  essay  on  H.  G. 
Wells  published  by  Nisbet  and  Co.,  1915,  Mr. 
Sidney  Dark's  "Outline  of  Wells"  (Parsons), 
and  Mr.  Holbrook  Jackson's  study  of  Wells  in 
his  charming  essays  "  Romance  and  Reality  " 
(Grant  Richards,  1911).  I  wish  also  to  acknow- 
ledge the  appropriation  of  a  word  coined  by 
Mr.  Jackson — Peterpantheism — and  used  as  a 
heading  for  one  of  my  chapters.  To  Mr.  William 
Archer's  searching  analysis  of  Wells's  New 
Religion  in  "  God  and  Mr.  Wells  "  (Watts  and 
Co.),  my  thanks  are  due  for  the  pleasure  and 
suggestions  I  have  drawn  from  it.  Nor  must 
I  forget  to  thank  Doctor  John  P.  Atkinson  and 
Rev.  G.  Montagu  Benton,  of  Saffron  Walden,  for 
their  assistance  in  the  topographical  notes,  and 
Mr.  E.  Walter  Jones  for  help  in  reference  to 
Chapter  X. 


CONTENTS 


PAGB 

THE  PREFACE  vii 


CHAPTER  I 

PRELIMINARY    SURVEY 

Wells  a  great  fighter — The  Utopian  Palace — Of  open 
fireplaces  —  Kipling  and  Wells  —  Stories  of 
machines — Forecast  of  our  battle  line  in  France — 
Welfare  of  children — The  pessimism  of  George 
Gissing — "  The  War  in  the  Air  " — A  world  state — 
The  "awareness"  of  Wells— "  The  Modern 
Utopia"— The  Boom  of  Wells— Mr.  E.  T.  Raymond 
on  Wells — Two  neglected  poets — A  fine  poem  by 
Davidson — Richard  Middleton — Wells's  picture  of 
Henley — Wells  and  the  capitalists — Wells  adopts 
Essex— Rt.  Hon.  C.  F.  G.  Masterman— The 
personal  confessions  of  Wells — Wells  fretful  about 
the  "  art "  of  James  and  George  Moore — "  The 
Hammer  pond  Park  Burglary  " 1 

CHAPTER  II 

EARLY   STRUGGLES 

Early  days  at  Bromley — Midhurst — Petersfield — "  The 
Drapery  " — "  Tono-Bungay  " — Assistant  master 
at  Midhurst — Henley  House  School — Wells  as  tutor 
— A  breakdown  in  health — Wells's  resiliency — 
Mr.  Thomas  Seccombe  on  Wells — "  The  Wonderful 
Visit " — God,  a  great  and  benign  power — An 
interview  with  Wells  in  1899 — Wells  depicts  the 
future  31 


xii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  III 

PARADOX  AND  THE  ABNORMAL  MIND         PAGE 

Wells  too  English  for  the  paradox — Hilaire  Belloc — 
The  paradoxes  of  Oscar  Wilde — George  Bernard 
Shaw  sportive  but  earnest 53 

CHAPTER   IV 

THE   GOAL   OF  FAITH 

A  finite  God  who  struggles — Pantheism  has  no  part 
in  the  Wellsian  creed — Shelley,  the  hasty  sceptic — 
"  Ode  to  the  West  Wind  "—A  God  who  captains 
but  does  not  coddle 60 

CHAPTER   V 

THE   SAVING   GRACE    OF   HUMOUR 

Wells  alongside  George  Gissing — Wells  and  his 
characters  rebel  against  circumstance — Mr. 
Hoopdriver — "  Love  and  Mr.  Lewisham  " — Mr. 
Chaffery  on  lies — Eternal-boyishness — Humour 
saves  Mr.  Polly — Mr.  Edwin  Pugh  on  Dickens  .  69 

CHAPTER   VI 

THE   PETERPANTHEISM   OF   WELLS 

Games  for  boys — Stevenson  and  the  ghost  of  the  past — 
"  God  is  youth  "— "  Floor  Games  "—A  box  of 
bricks — Wells's  bouts  of  spontaneity — A  cameo 
picture  of  Wells 78 

CHAPTER  VII 

THE   QUALITIES    OF   LITERATURE 

Wells  short  on  literature  and  long  on  life — Style  in 
literature  and  motor-cycles — The  homeliness  of 
Wells — An  echo  of  Browning  in  the  style  and 
philosophy  of  Wells  ....  92 


CONTENTS  riii 

CHAPTER  VIII 

"  RUSSIA   IN   THE   SHADOWS  "  PAGB 

The  tremendous  tasks  which  the  Bolshevik!  have 
faced — Wells  and  Marx — Maxim  Gorky — The 
Home  of  Rest  for  Workmen — Lenin  ...  97 


CHAPTER   IX 

THE   PROGRESS    OF   MR.    POLLY 

Wells  and  the  Union  of  Shop  Assistants — Sir  Thomas 
Browne  and  the  "  invisible  sun  within " — Mr. 
Polly  dreams  of  picturesque  and  mellow  things — 
Canterbury — Micawber — Mr.  Dick  and  "  The 
Fountain  Hotel" — Uncle  Pentstemon — Mr.  Polly 
and  his  first  feelings  of  disgust  with  a  narrow  life — 
The  Potwell  Inn — The  war  with  Uncle  Jim — Polly 
a  romantic  and  poet — Mr.  Sidney  Dark  on  Polly — 
The  bitterness  of  Wells  107 


CHAPTER  X 

A   STUDY   IN  THE   UN-MORAL 

"  The  Secret  Places  of  the  Heart  "—Is  all  love  cruel  ? 
— Sir  Richmond  Hardy  a  "  blend  of  Shelley  and 
Godwin  " — Sir  Richmond  no  hero  but  a  follower  of 
girls — Wells  taken  to  task  by  Edith  Shackleton — 
"  Don  Juan  again  " 127 

CHAPTER  XI 

"  THE   PASSIONATE   FRIENDS  " 

Love  that  is  friendship  and  friendship  that  is  love — 
Love  the  real  thing  too  singular  to  be  common — 
Clean  and  scandalous  or  immoral  and  respectable  ? 
— Lovers  in  the  narrower  meaning  of  the  word  .  139 


xiv  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  XII 

WELLS   AMONG   THE   LITERARY   LIONS  PAGB 

The  divine  truculence  of  mankind — The  difference 
between  Wells  and  Belloc — Wells  at  a  Church 
Guild  supper — Some  confessions — "  The  New 
Machiavelli  " — A  comparison  with  Kipling — Ford 
Madox  Hueffer,  Henry  James  and  Sidney  Dark  on 
Wells — Kipling  and  his  literary  cunning — Bernard 
Shaw  .  . 152 

CHAPTER  XIII 

"  LOVE   AND   MR.    LEWISHAM  " 

Lewisham  at  the  Whortley  School — His  "  Schema  " — 
Lewisham  in  love — Friction  with  the  head-master 
— A  wonderful  afternoon  and  a  scandalous 
conclusion — "  A  Herbert  Spencer  of  a  day  " — 
Lewisham  as  a  South  Kensington  student — Spirit- 
raising  and  the  second  appearance  of  Ethel — 
Lewisham  and  Ethel  married — **  Life  together 
is  a  difficult  thing  " — Roses  and  sorrow — "  A 
laugh  of  infinite  admissions  ">....  162 

CHAPTER  XIV 

"  KIPPS  " 

Wells  the  man  with  a  grievance — Coote  the  lay  confessor 
— Chitterlow — Helen  Walsingham — Kipps  on  the 
highroad  to  snobbery — A  little  flutter  of  freedom — 
Kipps  endures  the  splendour  of  the  Royal  Grand 
Hotel  —  He  marries  a  housemaid — "  Oo  ! — I 
dunno  1 "  . 176 

CHAPTER  XV 

"  MARRIAGE  " 

"Rest"  spells  "rust"  for  Wells— Trafford  and 
Marjorie — The  "  rag-bag  "  community — Elope- 
ment— Marjorie  pursues  a  selfish  and  extravagant 


CONTENTS  xv 

PAGE 

path — Trafford  rebels — The  silences  of  Labrador — 
A  "  new  set  of  riddles — The  Veiled  Being — 
Marjorie  finds  a  new  happiness — A  doubtful  finish  184 

CHAPTER  XVI 

"  THE   INVISIBLE   MAN  " 

Griffin  and  his  method  of  winning  the  gift  of  invisibility 
— The  cat  that  faded — The  limitations  of  an 
invisible  man — At  the  beershop  at  Iping  Hanger — 
Jaffers  the  constable — The  unseen  death  agony 
of  Griffin 196 

CHAPTER  XVII 

THE   ESSEX    OF   H.    G.    WELLS 

The  landscapes  of  Constable — "  He  does  not  die  " — 
"  Walton's  Compleat  Angler  " — The  man  who 
came  from  Dunmow — Dunmow  ale — Easton  Glebe 
— Early  Essex  Botanists — The  Countess  of 
Warwick's  Barn  at  Easton — "  Tithe  Barn  at 
Claverings " — Essex  man's  aversion  to  electric 
bells — Wells's  house  at  Easton — Rustic  mellowness 
— The  fascination  of  Essex — "  The  talking  fish  " — 
"The  Stag  Inn  "  —  "  Plumpers  Arms"— 
Arcadian  humour  —  Essex  provincialisms  — 
Coggeshall — A  local  carrier — "  Market  Saffron  " 
and  Saffron  Walden — John  Vaughan  on  the 
cultivation  of  Saffron — Newport — Essex  dialect — 
The  out-of-the-way  alehouse — On  the  shape  of 
coffins—"  Mr.  Britling "  on  Essex  .  .  .208 

CHAPTER  XVIII 

SOME   LITERARY    LANDMARKS 

Hoopdriver  in  Surrey — "  Green  Man  "  at  Putney — 
Esher-Godalming — Guildford — Merrow — Kipling's 
story  of  Merrow  Down — "  Horse  and  Groom  "  Inn 


xvi  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

— The  fly  orchis — Friday  Street — An  ancient 
foundry-pond — John  Evelyn — Crossways  Farm — 
Abinger  Hammer — "  Mr.  Polly" — "  The  Passionate 
Friends  "— Shere— The  "  White  Horse  " — Loafing 
— Walking  in  the  rain — Verse  and  worse — "  Tono- 
Bungay  " — Ashford — A  curious  tradition — Wells's 
last  visit  to  Gissing — Wells  a  Kentish  man — 
Aldington  Knoll—"  Kipps  "—New  Romney  .  236 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


H.  G.  Wells  -  -  -  -  Frontispiece 

PAGE 

H.  G.  Wells,  1899  49 

Shere  Church                                     -            -            -  149 

H.  G.  Wells  and  G.  Bernard  Shaw  161 

H.  G.  Wells,  1901  .....  167 

Easton  Glebe,  Little  Easton          ...  219 

Fireplace  at  the  White  Horse,  Shere        -            -  245 


H.    G.   WELLS 

CHAPTER   I 

PRELIMINARY  SURVEY 

CONFUCIUS  said,  "  Every  truth  has  four  corners  ; 
as  a  teacher  I  give  you  one  corner  and  it  is  for 
you  to  find  the  other  three."  The  true  artist 
in  words  or  things  is  always  more  or  less  impres- 
sionistic— he  talks  in  parables  and  it  is  for  the 
reader  to  puzzle  out  the  meaning  for  himself. 
This  maxim  of  Confucius  has  an  agreeable  twist 
in  it,  and  I  find  none  better  as  an  "  Open  Sesame" 
to  the  works  of  H.  G.  Wells.  In  a  word  Wells 
demands  the  mind  of  the  seeker — deep  sympathy 
and  diligence — and  unless  the  reader  can  give 
that,  in  full  measure,  he  will  never  find  the  true 
charm  of  his  work.  Not  the  story  but  the 
thought  behind  the  story  is  "  the  thing  "  with 
this  writer.  However,  he  always  leaves  a  splendid 
trail  of  clues  for  his  readers  to  pick  up,  for  from 
page  to  page,  he  will  often  rub  a  thought  in,  and 
leave  the  story  to  go  on  telling  its  tale  for  those 
dear  old  souls  who  subscribe  to  Mudie's  Library 
and  ask  for  something  popular  with  a  strong 
love  interest  in  it. 

The  capsules  of  thought  which  are  contained 
in  Wells's   novels   are  not  always  profound  in 

B 


2  H.   G.   WELLS 

the  philosophic  sense,  and  we,  his  readers,  are 
grateful  for  it.  He  is  easy  to  follow,  and  is  a 
man  who  regards  life  just  in  the  same  way  as  a 
million  of  his  neighbours.  But  he  has  the 
great  art  that  is  lacking  in  the  rest  of  us — the 
art  of  turning  the  vision  of  the  dreamer  into 
portable  wisdom — short,  sharp,  spear  thrusts 
which  we  all  can  remember,  or  better  still, 
which  we  cannot  forget.  He  is  always  original, 
interesting  and  stimulating.  On  every  page 
he  challenges  the  intellectual  progress  of  his 
readers. 

Wells  is  a  great  fighter,  too  ;  and  moreover 
he  possesses  the  noble  and  somewhat  rare  gift 
of  enthusiasm  which  is  a  medicine  for  the  most 
diverse  ills — it  alleviates  both  the  pains  of 
poverty  and  the  boredom  of  riches.  Enthusiasm 
and  health  are  synonymous.  Enthusiasts  do 
not  go  down  before  disease — they  are  more 
likely  to  get  run  over  by  a  motor  bus  or  some- 
thing like  that.  The  whole  medical  world 
now  favours  the  theory  that  half  our  ailments 
gain  their  first  hold  in  a  morbid  mentality. 
Love  is  blind,  people  tell  us.  This  is  of  course 
an  exaggeration.  But  it  is  built  up  from  the 
tried  and  tested  truth  that  enthusiasm,  whether 
it  takes  the  form  of  love  or  hate,  postage  stamps 
or  first  editions,  always  brings  myopia  in  its 
wake.  Enthusiasm  ever  has  trouble  with  its 
eyes.  That  is  perhaps  why  much  of  Wells's 
tempered  cleverness  and  keen  criticism  drops 


PRELIMINARY   SURVEY  3 

from  him  in  unreserved  and  exultant  self- 
surrender  when  he  deals  with  his  pet  enthusiasm 
of  the  moment. 

One  enthusiasm  which  he  loves  to  take  out 
for  a  riotous  ramp  on  the  slightest  provocation 
is  his  vision  of  the  scientifically  perfect  world. 
There  one  feels  as  if  he  were  on  an  indeterminable 
tour  through  a  succession  of  most  perfectly 
planned  and  equipped  workhouses.  His  Utopian 
palaces  are  most  depressing  besides  being  in 
his  own  words  "  very  clear  and  clean  and  simple." 
Mr.  E.  T.  Raymond  remarks  that  the  most 
cheerful  edifice  in  the  Wells's  Utopian  city  is 
the  lethal  chamber  which  permits  an  "  exit 
from  an  atmosphere  as  cold,  if  not  quite  as 
healthy,  as  that  of  a  well-ordered  mortuary." 

The  very  first  thing  which  put  me  out  of 
sympathy  with  the  Wellsian  palace  was  his 
outlawry  of  the  old-fashioned  open  fireplace. 
I  know  of  nothing  so  beneficent  as  an  open 
fireplace.  Fie  on  a  man  who  talks  of  radiators, 
and  thinks  himself  too  great  a  philosopher  to 
bow  down  to  an  honest  log  fire.  May  he  live 
in  a  vast  steam-heated  hotel  for  a  while  to 
teach  him  the  value  of  the  open  grate.  These 
are  the  kind  of  dizzy  notions  Wells  would  palm 
off  on  us  : 

*  There  is  no  fireplace,  and  I  am  perplexed 
by  that  until  I  find  a  thermometer  beside  six 
switch-boards  on  the  wall.  Above  this  switch- 
board is  a  brief  instruction  :  one  switch  warms 


4  H.   G.   WELLS 

the  floor,  which  is  not  carpeted,  but  covered 
by  a  substance  like  soft  oilcloth  ;  one  warms 
the  mattress  (which  is  of  metal  resistance  coils 
threaded  to  and  fro  in  it) ;  and  the  others  warm 
the  wall  in  various  degrees,  each  directing 
current  through  a  separate  system  of  resistances. 
The  casement  does  not  open,  but  above,  flush 
with  the  ceiling,  a  noiseless  rapid  fan  pumps  air 
out  of  the  room.  The  air  enters  by  a  Tobin  shaft. 
There  is  a  recess  dressing-room,  equipped  with 
a  bath  and  all  that  is  necessary  to  one's  toilette, 
and  the  water,  one  remarks,  is  warmed,  if  one 
desires  it  warm,  by  passing  it  through  an 
electrically  heated  spiral  of  tubing.  A  cake  of 
soap  drops  out  of  a  store  machine  on  the  turn 
of  a  handle,  and  when  you  have  done  with 
it,  you  drop  that  and  your  soiled  towels  and  so 
forth,  which  also  are  given  you  by  machines, 
into  a  little  box,  through  the  bottom  of  which 
they  drop  at  once  and  sail  down  a  smooth  shaft." 

I  wonder  if  Easton  Glebe  is  heated  with  such 
radiators  !  I  will  not  believe  it.  Rather  will 
I  think  of  Wells  calling  his  architect  up  before 
him  and  saying: 

"  Sir,  I  wish  the  fireplaces  of  my  house  to  be 
tall,  with  generous  open  grates,  ingle-nooks, 
oak  shelves  and  soft  coloured  tiles." 

Of  course  he  must  have  said  this,  for  thus 
he  would  best  catch  in  a  hundred  fire-lit  pictures 
the  soul  of  things  within  his  home. 

As  for  me,  I  will  draw  my  chair  up  to  the 


PRELIMINARY   SURVEY  5 

magical  ash-wood  blaze  and  toast  my  toes  till 
I  come  to  a  fireless  grave.  Little  friends,  talk 
to  me  of  drowsy  log  fires  ! 

But  let  those  who  will  deplore  this  or  that 
weakness  in  his  work,  Wells  is  endowed  with 
the  normal  receptive  mind  and  has  always 
something  to  say  worth  listening  to.  One  very 
daring  journalist  has  described  him  as  the 
"  Greatest  living  man  who  is  not  needed." 
But  that  is  a  piece  of  gentle  banter.  He  has 
tremendous  power  and  the  spirit  of  his  work 
is  always  pregnant  with  human -ness.  Take 
"  Anticipations,"  "  Mankind  in  the  Making " 
and  "  The  Modern  Utopia,"  and  follow  them 
in  the  spiritual  meanings  rather  than  by  the 
printed  word.  The  clean  and  simple  things  are 
there  behind  the  passionate  criticism  of  all  our 
evils — and  over  all  is  the  desire  for  comradeship, 
wider  prospects  and  advantages  for  all,  greater 
freedom  and  happier  homes.  The  true  New 
Republican  "  will  seek  perpetually  to  gauge  his 
quality,  he  will  watch  to  see  himself  the  master 
of  his  habits  and  of  his  powers  ;  he  will  take 
his  brain,  blood  and  lineage  as  a  trust  to  be 

administered  for  the  world." 

*  *  *  * 

The  'nineties  produced  two  fresh — or,  shall 
we  say  modernized  ? — forms  of  romance  :  the 
romance  of  the  day's  work  and  the  romance 
of  the  inhuman.  These  subjects  had  been 
meddled  with  by  many  writers  in  a  blundering 


6  H.   G.    WELLS 

way,  but  never  have  we  been  regaled  with  such 
perfect  workmanship  as  Rudyard  Kipling's  and 
Wells's.  The  lure  of  things  technical  has  made 
a  distinct  appeal  to  both  authors,  but  in  each 
case  the  subject  is  treated  in  diverse  ways. 
Kipling  puts  the  machine  in  the  foreground  of 
his  picture,  and  makes  it  the  really  sentient 
figure  of  his  tale.  In  his  story  .007,  which  is 
the  record  of  a  shining  and  impetuous  young 
locomotive,  we  feel  that  the  troubles  of  the  "  loco  " 
when  it  first  becomes  acquainted  with  a  hot- 
box  are  our  troubles.  It  calls  for  ten  times  more 
fellow-feeling  than  any  of  Wells's  machines. 
It  follows  that  after  Kipling  has  been  writing 
of  machines,  and  turns  to  celebrate  man,  we 
realize  that  his  machine  possesses  a  soul,  while 
his  human  characters  are  mere  puppets.  His 
machines  are  more  alive  than  his  men  and 
women.  But  it  is  the  reverse  with  Wells;  of 
all  his  extravagant  stories  of  the  machinery 
of  the  world  not  one  of  his  mechanical  creations 
is  a  creature  we  have  met — a  thing  that  refuses 
to  be  forgotten.  His  machines  have  no  souls. 
Therefore  we  may  postulate  that  Kipling  cele- 
brates the  man-like  machine  while  Wells 
celebrates  the  machine-like  man.  It  is  the  great 
dream  of  Wells  that  one  day  all  humanity  will 
be  like  some  vast  business  of  cog  wheels,  working 
in  perfect  order  and  rhythm,  chanting  like 
Kipling's  engine  in  McAndrew's  Hymn  the  note 
of :  LAW,  ORDER,  DUTY  AND  RESTRAINT, 


PRELIMINARY   SURVEY  7 

OBEDIENCE,  DISCIPLINE.  It  will  be  a  very 
grim,  cold,  ponderous  old  place  this  World 
State  of  his,  and  mercy,  sympathy,  compassion, 
and  love  seem  to  be  virtues — indeed  they  are 
vital  forces — for  which  he  does  not  appear  to 
have  any  use  in  his  great  scheme.  However, 
his  point  of  view  is  the  common-sense  point  of 
view,  and  he  is  all  the  while  pointing  out  a 
possible  road  leading  to  a  finer  civilisation, 
which  if  still  too  elevated  and  fanciful  for  us, 
may  be  appreciated  for  its  valuable  suggestions 
with  regard  to  certain  aspects  of  socialism. 

He  has  certainly  changed  his  mind  on  many 
points  since  his  "  Anticipations  "  were  published 
in  1901  (Fortnightly  Review),  but  it  is  very 
interesting  to  compare  the  images  of  his  uncanny 
imagination  with  the  facts  of  the  present  day. 
Perhaps  no  writer  gives  us  such  a  faithful  picture 
of  the  use  of  air-ships  in  warfare  and  the  dis- 
regard of  non-combatants  as  Wells  ;  and  the 
following  is  an  amazing  forecast  of  the  battle 
line  in  France  in  1918  : 

"  But  somewhere  far  in  the  rear,  the  central 
organiser  will  sit  at  the  telephonic  centre  of  his 
vast  front,  and  he  will  strengthen  here  and  feed 
there,  and  watch,  watch  perpetually  the  pressure, 
the  incessant,  remorseless  pressure  that  is  seeking 
to  wear  down  his  countervailing  thrust.  Behind 
the  thin  firing  line  that  is  actually  engaged,  the 
country  for  many  miles  will  be  rapidly  cleared 
and  devoted  to  the  business  of  war,  big  machines 


8  H.   G.   WELLS 

will  be  at  work  making  second,  third,  and  fourth 
lines  of  trenches  that  may  be  needed  if  presently 
the  firing  line  is  forced  back,  spreading  out 
transverse  paths  for  the  swift  lateral  movement 
of  the  cyclists,  who  will  be  in  perpetual  alertness 
to  relieve  sudden  local  pressures,  and  all  along 
those  great  motor  roads  our  first  **  Anticipa- 
tions "  sketched,  there  will  be  a  vast  and  rapid 
shifting  to  and  fro  of  big  and  very  long-range 
guns.  These  guns  will  probably  be  fought  with 
the  help  of  balloons.  The  latter  will  hang  above 
the  firing  line  all  along  the  front,  incessantly 
ascending  and  withdrawn ;  they  will  be 
continually  determining  the  distribution  of  the 
antagonist's  forces,  directing  the  fire  of  continu- 
ally shifting  great  guns  upon  the  apparatus  and 
supports  in  the  rear  of  his  fighting  line,  forecasting 
his  night  plans  and  seeking  some  tactical  and 
strategic  weakness  in  that  sinewy  line  of  battle." 
In  1901,  Wells  had  not  made  up  his  mind 
concerning  monogamous  marriage.  In  "  Antici- 
pations "  he  thinks  the  strong  arm  of  the  State 
will  insist  only  upon  one  thing — the  security 
and  welfare  of  the  child.  The  State  will  be  reserve 
guardian  of  all  children.  It  will  aim  at  establish- 
ing after  a  second  century  is  past,  a  World  State 
with  a  common  language  and  a  common  rule. 
The  unfit  will  be  eliminated,  and  the  whole  tenor 
and  meaning  of  the  world  as  he  sees  it  is  that  the 
unfit  will  have  to  go.  So  far  as  they  fail  to 
develop  sound,  vigorous,  and  distinctive 


PRELIMINARY   SURVEY  9 

personalities  for  the  greater  world  of  the  future 
it  is  their  portion  to  die  out  and  disappear.  He 
does  not  think  that  the  New  Republican  will  have 
any  belief  in  the  immortality  of  the  soul.  Active 
and  capable  men  of  all  forms  of  religious  profes- 
sion are  beginning  to  disregard  the  question  of 
immortality  altogether.  So,  to  a  greater  degree, 
will  the  men  of  the  coming  time. 

The  New  State  will  take  drastic  measures  with 
the  incurably  diseased  and  habitual  criminals. 
A  State  inspector  will  call  round  with  some 
morphia  pills  and  gently  but  firmly  administer 
them.  The  suicide  of  helpless  and  afflicted  people 
will  be  regarded  as  an  act  of  duty  rather  than  a 
crime. 

His  first  books  on  sociology  form  a  sort  of 
trilogy — "  Anticipations,"  "  Mankind  in  the 
Making  "  (1903)  and  "  A  Modern  Utopia  "  (1905). 

Had  he  been  a  pessimist  he  would  have  made 
a  second  George  Gissing,  for  it  will  be  admitted 
that  the  latter  was  almost  as  clever  as  Wells, 
but  of  course  without  Wells's  striking  vein  of 
eternal  energy.  But  there  are  points  in  the  two 
writers  which  make  interesting  comparison.  The 
early  years  of  a  Gissing  leading  character  and  a 
Wells  creation  such  as  Kipps  run  parallel.  In 
both  cases  they  are  likely  to  be  poverty-stricken, 
odd  people,  with  a  lively  idea  that  their  personal 
worth  should  place  them  far  above  their  sordid 
environments.  But  once  the  battle  for  life  and 
advancement  begins  the  two  writers  have  nothing 


10  H.   G.   WELLS 

in  common.  The  Gissing  hero  is  a  doomed  man 
from  the  start,  and  every  time  he  grasps  the  rung 
of  the  ladder  to  hoist  himself  up  Fate  comes 
down  with  a  hammer  on  his  knuckles.  In  the  end 
he  never  expects  to  grasp  the  ladder  without 
receiving  a  check  of  some  kind  and  so  he  only 
contents  himself  with  whining  out  his  peevish 
protest  against  life's  regulations,  and  appointing 
himself  as  a  picket  to  prevent  others  from 
approaching  the  ladder.  The  Wells  hero,  though 
also  a  graduate  of  the  "  University  of  Hard 
Knocks,"  when  time  is  called  for  the  first  round, 
is  neither  so  melancholy  nor  so  easily  vanquished. 
He  is  indeed  a  very  tactful  young  man  too,  in  a 
"  natural  sort  of  way,"  as  Wells  is  fond  of  saying. 
One  instinctively  thinks  of  Bert  Smallways  in 
"The  War  in  the  Air."  The  picture  of  Bert 
is  not  very  flattering,  but  we  feel  at  once  that 
the  young  man  means  to  get  up  the  ladder  by 
fair  means  or  foul : 

"  Bert  Smallways  was  a  vulgar  little  creature, 
the  sort  of  pert,  limited  soul  that  the  old 
civilisation  of  the  early  twentieth  century  pro- 
duced by  the  million  in  every  country  of  the  world. 
He  had  lived  all  his  life  in  narrow  streets,  and 
between  mean  houses  he  could  not  look  over, 
and  in  a  narrow  circle  of  ideas  from  which  there 
was  no  escape.  He  thought  the  whole  duty  of 
man  was  to  be  smarter  than  his  fellows,  get  his 
hands,  as  he  put  it,  *  on  the  dibs,'  and  have  a 
good  time.  He  was,  in  fact,  the  sort  of  man  who 


PRELIMINARY  SURVEY  11 

had  made  England  and  America  what  they  were. 
The  luck  had  been  against  him  so  far,  but  that 
was  by  the  way.  He  was  a  mere  aggressive  and 
acquisitive  individual." 

Wells  has  informed  us  that  Bert  had  no  code 
of  courage.  This,  I  think,  is  not  altogether  just, 
for  it  required  a  considerable  amount  of  courage 
in  him  to  face  the  Prince's  secretary  and  stick 
it  out  that  he  was  Butteridge,  the  world-famous 
inventor.  Bert  also  proved  himself  to  be  a  bold 
and  daring  mechanic,  showing  reckless  courage 
many  times  in  undertaking  hazardous  work  on 
the  "  Vaterland "  when  she  was  disabled. 
Anyway,  we  know  from  the  first  chapter  that  Bert 
is  as  resilient  as  Wells  himself,  and  that  we  are 
backing  a  winner.  That  is  a  helpful  and 
exhilarating  feeling.  The  jolly  joust  is  more 
desirable  than  Gissing's  sad  note  of  dismayed 
and  bitter  regret. 

Let  us  turn  to  "  The  Salvaging  of  Civilization." 
Wells  does  not  weep  over  the  ruins  of  war  without 
hope.  He  quickly  forgets  all  his  gloomy  fore- 
bodings, and  is  no  man  for  standing  by  as  a 
spectator.  He  is  soon  at  the  wheel,  and  is  always 
eager  to  taste  life,  to  guide  it.  With  eager  and 
audacious  boldness  he  draws  up  a  method  by 
which  a  new  world  State  must  be  governed  : 

44  There  will  be  a  supreme  court  determining 
not  International  Law,  but  World  Law.  There 
will  be  a  growing  code  of  World  Law. 

"There  will  be  a  world  currency. 


12  H.   G.   WELLS 

"  There  will  be  a  ministry  of  posts,  transport, 
and  communications  generally. 

"There  will  be  a  ministry  of  trade  in  staple 
products  and  for  the  conservation  and  develop- 
ment of  the  natural  resources  of  the  earth. 

"There  will  be  a  ministry  of  social  and  labour 
conditions. 

"  There  will  be  a  ministry  of  world  health. 

"  There  will  be  a  ministry,  the  most  important 
ministry  of  all,  watching  and  supplementing 
national  educational  work  and  taking  up  the 
care  and  stimulation  of  backward  communities. 

"  And  instead  of  a  War  Office  and  Naval  and 
Military  departments,  there  will  be  a  Peace 
Ministry  studying  the  belligerent  possibilities 
of  every  new  invention,  watching  for  armed 
disturbances  everywhere,  and  having  complete 
control  of  every  armed  force  that  remains  in  the 
world." 

Wells  is  not  the  sort  of  man  ever  to  e  very 
downhearted  for  long.  Even  in  this  age  of 
pessimism  when  half  the  world  seems  to  be  in 
ruins  he  is  still  cheerful,  alert  and  unsuppressible 
— he  rebounds  with  the  resilience  of  a  punching 
ball  and  his  rejoinders  are  just  as  full  of  vigour. 
Perhaps  his  nearest  approach  to  real  pessimism 
will  be  found  in  "  The  Salvaging  of  Civilization." 
Browning's  optimism — "  God's  in  his  heaven, 
all's  right  with  the  world  " — was  certainly  not 
his  when  he  wrote  : 

"  This  world  of  mankind  seems  to  me  to  be  a 


PRELIMINARY  SURVEY  18 

very  sinister  and  dreadful  world.  It  has  come 
to  this — that  I  open  my  newspaper  every 
morning  with  a  sinking  heart,  and  usually  I 

find  little  to  console  me." 

*  *  *  * 

It  will  be  observed  that  Wells's  novels  are 
not  merely  dissertations  on  life ;  they  are 
charged  with  finer  material  than  that — they 
pulse  and  throb  with  vitality  themselves.  They 
are  full  of  electric  currents  and  the  God- energy 
of  eternal  boyishness.  One  feels  that  their 
author  is  acutely  sensitive  to  surrounding  con- 
ditions. More  than  any  other  writer  he  gives 
one  the  idea  of  having  his  hand  on  the  steering 
wheel  at  every  perilous  turn  of  the  road.  He 
is  wonderfully  inquisitive — inquisitive  about 
movements,  sensations  and  facts.  Take,  for 
example,  this  passage  from  his  novel  "  Mr. 
Britling  sees  it  Through "  which  may  strike 
the  eye  at  a  chance  opening  : 

"  Ahead  of  them  and  well  to  the  left,  rode  a 
postman  on  a  bicycle ;  towards  them,  with 
that  curious  effect  of  implacable  fury  peculiar 
to  motor  cycles,  came  a  motor  cyclist.  First 
Mr.  Britling  thought  that  he  would  not  pass 
between  these  two,  then  he  decided  that  he  would 
hurry  up  and  do  so,  then  he  reverted  to  his  former 
decision,  and  then  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was 
going  so  fast  that  he  must  inevitably  run  down 
the  postman.  His  instinct  not  to  do  that  pulled 
the  car  sharply  across  the  path  of  the  motor 


14  H.   G.   WELLS 

cyclist.  *  Oh  my  God  !  '  cried  Mr.  Britling  ; 
4  My  God  ! '  twisted  his  wheel  over  and  dis- 
tributed his  feet  amonjj  his  levers  dernentedly. 

"  He  had  an  imperfectly  formed  idea  of  getting 
across  right  in  front  of  the  motor  cyclist,  and 
then  they  were  going  down  the  brief  grassy 
slope  between  the  road  and  the  wall,  straight 
at  the  wall,  and  still  at  a  good  speed.  The 
motor  cyclist  smacked  against  something  and 
vanished  from  the  problem.  The  wall  seemed 
to  rush  up  at  them  and  then — collapse.  There 
was  a  tremendous  concussion.  Mr.  Direck 
gripped  at  his  friend  the  emergency  brake,  but 
had  only  time  to  touch  it  before  his  head  hit 
against  the  frame  of  the  glass  wind-screen,  and 
a  curtain  fell  upon  everything 

"  He  opened  his  eyes  upon  a  broken  wall,  a 
crumpled  motor  car,  and  an  undamaged  motor 
cyclist  in  the  aviator's  cap  and  thin  oilskin 
overalls  dear  to  motor  cyclists." 

If  the  reader  has  by  any  chance  experienced 
the  thrills  of  a  motor  smash  he  will  recognize 
at  once  the  "  awareness  "  of  the  above  passage. 
The  motor  cyclist  in  the  inevitable  oilskins  and 
leather  helmet  attracts  Wells  at  once,  and  I 
feel  that  he  is  in  sympathy  with  such  people. 
He  is  always  inclined  to  idealise  the  man  with 

a  motor. 

*  *  *  * 

Like  most  men  who  have  struggled  for  bread 
in  the  towns,  silence  and  solitude  have  a  singular 


PRELIMINARY   SURVEY  15 

appeal  for  Wells.  He  constantly  insists  that 
it  is  necessary  and  good  for  the  soul  for  each 
man  to  go  for  a  time  into  the  silence  and  distance 
of  some  wild  place  for  calm  and  deliberate 
reflection.  It  will  be  recalled  that  in  "  Marriage  " 
he  fell  back  on  the  device  of  sending  Trafford 
and  Marjorie  into  the  loneliness  of  a  Labrador 
winter,  in  order  to  set  them  right  with  them- 
selves and  give  them  a  clearer  vision  of  life  ; 
and  the  idea  is  worked  out  again  in  "  Ann 
Veronica "  where  Capes  takes  Ann  into  the 
shining  glories  and  blue  shadows  of  the  mountains 
of  Switzerland  to  test  their  love  for  each  other. 
The  desire  to  flee  from  the  noise  of  the  world  is 
as  sure  and  profound  as  the  impulse  which 
drove  Richard  Jefferies  from  inland  meadows 
to  the  sea,  and  goaded  Sir  Francis  Drake  to 
disappointment  and  death  at  sea  in  1596.  It 
is  something  which  at  times  overpowers  that 
delicious  sense  of  home  and  friends  and  bids 
us  go  forth  to  the  waste  places — to  exchange 
home  for  an  estate  that  is  a  truer  symbol  of  our 
inconstant  lodging  on  earth.  This  impulse  is 
introduced  in  the  mystical  ceremonials  of  the 
samurai  ("A  Modern  Utopia  ")  : 

"  But  the  fount  of  motives  lies  in  the  individual 
life,  it  lies  in  silent  and  deliberate  reflections, 
and  at  this  the  most  striking  of  all  the  rules  of 
the  samurai  aims.  For  seven  consecutive  days 
in  the  year,  at  least,  each  man  or  woman  under 
the  rule  must  go  right  out  of  all  the  life  of  man 


16  H.   G.   WELLS 

into  some  wild  and  solitary  place,  must  speak 
to  no  man  or  woman,  and  have  no  sort  of  inter- 
course with  mankind.  They  must  go  bookless 
and  weaponless,  without  pen  or  paper  or  money. 
Provisions  must  be  taken  for  the  period  of  the 
journey,  a  rug  or  sleeping  sack — for  they  must 
sleep  under  the  open  sky — but  no  means  of 
making  a  fire.  They  may  study  maps  before- 
hand to  guide  them,  showing  any  difficulties 
and  dangers  in  the  journey,  but  they  may  not 
carry  such  helps.  They  must  not  go  by  beaten 
ways  or  wherever  there  are  inhabited  houses, 
but  into  the  bare,  quiet  places  of  the  globe — 

the  regions  set  apart  for  them." 

*  *  *  * 

Mr.  E.  T.  Raymond  has  pointed  out  that 
an  author  who  expected  to  make  a  solid  income 
by  writing  was  a  comic  notion  in  the  days 
of  Adam  Smith  and  his  "  Wealth  of  Nations," 
and  in  this  book  the  literary  quilldrivers 
are  classed  as  the  "  unprosperous  race." 
In  those  days  an  author's  calling  was  looked 
upon  as  a  dreadful  trade — like  looking  for  gold 
in  London  gutters.  But  things  have  changed, 
as  the  fortunate  financial  history  of  Herbert 
George  Wells  certainly  proves  up  to  the  hilt. 
The  "  boom  "  which  followed  his  novel  "  Kipps  " 
(1905)  can  only  be  compared  in  its  area,  length, 
duration  and  significance  to  that  of  a  famous 
forerunner,  Charles  Dickens.  But  Charles 
Dickens  was  never  very  robust  from  the  financial 


PRELIMINARY   SURVEY  17 

point  of  view.  I  am  not  sure,  but  I  could  make 
a  shrewd  guess  that  Ethel  M.  Dell  has  netted  a 
greater  sum  of  money  out  of  one  short  and  simple 
novel  than  Dickens  received  for  any  three  of 
his  stories  of  enormous  length  and  marvellous 
complexity.  And  yet  Dickens  in  his  day  enjoyed 
world-wide  recognition,  was  a  popular  idol  and 
was  looked  upon  as  a  man  who  had  been  well 
rewarded  financially.  His  middling-sized  house 
at  Gadshill  was  looked  upon  as  a  sort  of 
emperor's  palace.  But  what  is  the  truth  about 
it  ?  The  freehold  cost  of  it  was  under  £2,000 

— a  sum  that  Miss  ,  the  novelist,  recently 

spent  on  building  a  wall  around  her  country 
house  to  protect  her  from  the  gaze  of  curious 
admirers.*  Dickens  was  haunted  by  a  fear  of 
poverty — based  on  the  expenses  of  a  large  family 
and  a  dread  of  illness,  and  this  caused  him  to 
augment  his  income  by  giving  those  exhausting 
public  readings  which  certainly  hastened  his 
death  in  the  end.  So  Wells,  compared  with 
Dickens,  is  a  very  fortunate  man.  He  can  also 
congratulate  himself  he  was  not  born  a  poet, 
for  the  real  poets  of  his  time  were  very  scurvily 
treated.  As  one  critic  remarked,  they  were 
prophets  whom  England  did  not  stone  and  did 
not  even  take  the  trouble  to  listen  to.  Davidson 
and  Middleton,  the  one  about  fifty,  the  other 
not  yet  thirty,  found  it  so  very  difficult  to  earn 
enough  to  keep  body  and  soul  together  that 

*  yide"The  Gay  Defiance  of  H.  G.  Wells,"  by  E.  T.  Raymond. 

C 


18  H.   G.   WELLS 

they  threw  away  their  lives.  Poor  Middleton 
roamed  London,  forsaken  and  friendless, 
repeating  pathetically  that  there  was  "  no  demand 
for  poetry — no  demand  at  all,"  and  Davidson, 
who  wrote  some  of  the  finest  poems  in  the  English 
language,  could  not  sell  one  of  them  for  a  five- 
pound  note.  Here  are  two  of  his  verses  which 
the  world  received  with  such  shabby  and  careless 
regard  : 

My  feet  are  heavy  now,  but  on  I  go, 

My  head  erect  beneath  the  tragic  years, 
The  way  is  steep,  but  I  would  have  it  so  ; 

And  dusty,  but  I  lay  the  dust  with  tears, 
Though  none  can  see  me  weep  :   alone  I  climb 
The  rugged  path  that  leads  me  out  of  time — 
Out  of  time  and  out  of  all, 
Singing  yet  in  sun  and  rain, 
"  Heel  and  toe  from  dawn  to  dusk 
Round  the  world  and  home  again." 

Farewell  the  hope  that  mocked,  farewell  despair 
That  went  before  me  still  and  made  the  pace. 
The  earth  is  full  of  graves,  and  mine  was  there 

Before  my  life  began,  my  resting-place  ; 
And  I  shall  find  it  out,  and  with  the  dead 
Lie  down  forever,  all  my  sayings  said — 
Deeds  all  done  and  songs  all  sung, 
While  others  chant  in  sun  and  rain, 
"  Heel  and  toe  from  dawn  to  dusk, 
Round  the  world  and  home  again." 

And  while  Wells  was  concerned  with  the 
salvation  of  society,  pausing  now  and  then  to 
pulverize  the  business  classes  with  his  scorn — 
"  A  miscellany  of  shareholders,  workers,  financiers 
and  superfluous  poor — such  are  the  English  "  ; 
"  when  I  think  of  imperialism  I  think  of  the 
Union  Jack  stuck  upon  inferior  goods  to  sell 
them,"  and  so  forth,  poor  Richard  Middleton 


PRELIMINARY  SURVEY  19 

was  asking,  as  a  favour,  for  a  few  bright  moments 

out  of  all  eternity  : 

Time  !  you  old  dotard  prosing  endlessly 

To  bore  a  graceless  world,  and  leave  our  sky 
Sadder  than  rain  or  any  wise  man's  tears, 
I  crave  no  part  in  your  monotony, 
But  ask  one  favour,  being  born  to  die, 
Grant  me  my  moments,  you  may  keep  your  years. 

Let  us  hope  that  when  Wells  is  made  president 
of  the  Modern  Utopia  that  he  will  honour  John 
Davidson  by  giving  him  a  place  in  "  The  Book 
of  the  Samurai "  along  with  "  Old  Henley." 
By  the  way,  his  picture  of  Henley  as  he  recollects 
him  is  quite  good — "  a  great  red-faced  man, 
with  fiery  hair,  a  noisy,  intolerant  maker  of 
enemies,  with  a  tender  heart.  He  wrote  like 
wine  ;  red  wine  with  a  light  shining  through 
it."  And  it  might  be  added  that  the  "  red  wine  " 
of  his  genius  did  not  bring  in  the  price  of  cheapest 
claret ! 

Yet  the  literary  men  of  those  days,  at  least 
those  who  refused  to  accept  shelter  in  a  world 
which  treated  them  so  shabbily,  were  decidedly 
optimistic.  They  might  have  groused  in  a  mild 
way  or  murdered  a  publisher  now  and  then, 
but  few  of  them  longed  for  "  A  Modern  Utopia  " 
or  a  "  Wells's  Lethal  Chamber."  With  a  bottle 
of  port  in  the  sideboard  and  a  wife  who  was 
proficient  in  the  art  of  making  dumplings  our 
cheery  —  sometimes  beery  !  —  Victorian  ink- 
slinger  was  moderately  happy.  He  felt  that 
God  was  in  his  Heaven  right  enough,  even  if 
the  world  was  a  little  irksome  at  times. 


20  H.   G.   WELLS 

But  from  the  beginning  Wells  has  been 
troubled  with  a  hatred  of  the  prevailing  social 
system.  His  readers  will  gather  from  certain 
descriptions  in  "  Kipps,"  and  "  The  History 
of  Mr.  Polly  "  that  some  of  the  chief  targets 
for  his  censure  are  the  inadequacies  of  cheap 
education.  The  reader  can  picture  that  "  private 
school  of  dingy  aspect  and  still  dingier  pre- 
tensions, where  there  were  no  object  lessons, 
and  the  studies  of  book-keeping  and  French  were 
pursued  (but  never  effectually  overtaken)  under 
the  guidance  of  an  elderly  gentleman,  who 
wore  a  nondescript  gown  and  took  snuff, 
wrote  copperplate,  explained  nothing,  and 
used  a  cane  with  remarkable  dexterity  and 
gusto." 

Perhaps  the  snuffy  gentleman  who  instructed 
young  Wells  was  a  blessing  travelling  incognito  ! 
If  he  had  been  a  brilliant  and  scholarly  man,  he 
might  have  influenced  his  scholar  against  that 
keen  criticism  of  life  which  has  been  so  very 
useful  to  him.  Worse  still,  Wells  might  have 
been  the  son  of  a  millionaire  pickle-merchant, 
and  sent  to  Eton  and  other  wearisome  courts 
of  learning.  If  he  had  survived  such  a 
depressing  period  with  any  acuteness  of  vision 

he  would  have  been  a  marvellous  fellow. 
*  *  *  * 

What  becomes  of  a  man  personally  is  of  no 
importance  to  Wells.  To  him  man  is  only  a 
temporary  phenomenon.  It  is  not  how  to 


PRELIMINARY   SURVEY  21 

save  the  individual  but  the  salvation  of  society 
that  concerns  him. 

He  has  been  very  ferocious  at  the  expense 
of  the  capitalist — the  "  wicked  able  man  who 
is  a  kind  of  sink  into  which  much  flows  but  out 
of  which  little  ever  comes  except  a  musty  whiff 
of  charity."     At  onetime  he  was  very  dejected 
over    the    dividends     which     converged     from 
various  parts  of  the  world  towards  the  capitalist, 
and  was  of  the  opinion  that,  unless  defeated, 
he  would  have  us  all  at  the  galley  oars  in  the 
end.     But  since  that  time  he  has  taken  on  a 
certain    mellowness.      His    novels    have     been 
"  boomed  "  and  "  filmed,"  he  has  been  lionised, 
and   some   of  these   dividends   have  been   con- 
verging his  way  and  no  man  has  given  better 
value  for  them.     He  knows  the  satisfaction  of 
work  well  done  and  well  paid  for.     He  appreciates 
the  comfort  and  luxury  of  a  beautiful  old  English 
home.       He    is    now    more    sorry    than    angry 
regarding  the  captains  of  industry,  and  has  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  such  "  foolish  plungers  " 
are  wanting  in  that  higher  form  of  mental  power 
which    alone    could    accomplish    the     ruin     of 
mankind. 

Wells,  like  Kipling,  has  in  late  years  been 
attracted  to  the  stillness  and  ancientry  of  the 
English  wayside  for  inspiration,  and  in  Mr. 
Britling  we  find  him  playing  affectionately  with 
the  idea  that  Essex,  his  adopted  county,  is 
quite  unlike  any  other  spot  in  the  world.  Essex 


22  H.   G.   WELLS 

is  the  only  county  "  where  the  millionaires  and 
that  sort  of  people  "  do  not  pollute  the  air  and 
squat  in  the  old  estates.  Wells  is  more  truculent 
and  saucy  in  his  love  for  Essex  than  Hilaire 
Belloc  is  over  his  beloved  Sussex  Downs : 
"  Surrey  is  full  of  rich  stockbrokers,  company- 
promoters,  bookies,  judges,  newspaper  pro- 
prietors. Sort  of  people  who  fence  the  path 
across  their  parks.  They  do  something  to  the  old 
places — I  don't  know  what  they  do — but  instantly 
the  countryside  becomes  a  villadom.  And  little 
sub-estates  and  red-brick  villas  and  art  cottages 
spring  up.  And  a  kind  of  new,  hard  neatness. 
And  pneumatic  tyre  and  automobile  spirit 
advertisements — great  glaring  boards  by  the 
roadside.  And  all  the  poor  people  are  inspected 
and  rushed  about  until  they  forget  who  their 
grandfathers  were.  They  become  villa  parasites 
and  odd- job  men,  and  grow  basely  rich  and  buy 
gramophones." 

Among  people  whom  he  cannot  abide  are  the 
golf-playing  fraternity.  He  seems  to  hate  them 
more  than  soldiers  and  clergymen,  and  treats 
them  as  a  scurvy  and  persistent  eczema  which 
breaks  out  during  the  week-end  all  over  Surrey 
and  Sussex  : 

"  Those  Surrey  people  are  not  properly  English 
at  all.  They  are  strenuous.  You  have  to  get  on 
or  get  out.  They  drill  their  gardeners,  lecture 
very  fast  on  agricultural  efficiency,  and  have 
miniature  rifle  ranges  in  every  village.  They 


PRELIMINARY   SURVEY  23 

dress  for  dinner.  They  dress  for  everything. 
If  a  man  gets  up  in  the  night  to  look  for  a  burglar 
he  puts  on  the  correct  costume — or  doesn't  go. 
They've  got  a  special  scientific  system  for  urging 
on  their  tramps.  And  they  lock  up  their  churches 
on  a  week-day.  Half  their  soil  is  hard  chalk  or 
a  rationalistic  sand,  only  suitable  for  bunkers 
and  villa  foundations.  And  they  play  golf  in  a 
large,  expensive,  thorough  way  because  it's  the 
thing  to  do  .  .  . 

On  the  other  hand,  he  points  out  there  is  a 
fourth  dimension  in  Essex  which,  to  an  American, 
is  beyond  perception.  It  is  a  marvellous  place 
and  no  "  decent  Essex  man  "  wants  to  play  golf. 
The  soil  is  no  common  earth,  but  "  rich  succulent 
clay  "  stuff  which  holds  and  possesses  the  owner 
(in  more  ways  than  one  in  winter  !),  and  all  the 
finger-posts  have  been  twisted  round  by  facetious 
men  years  ago.  Such  things  of  course  call  forth 
all  the  traditional  excellence  in  a  man's  character, 
and  are  good  for  the  soul.  In  Essex  they  hunt  in 
any  old  togs,  and  the  farmers  are  inordinately 
proud  6f  their  rheumatics,  hens,  pigs,  oaks,  and 
roses— and  regard  them  as  part  of  a  great  legacy 
of  responsibility.  The  dead,  twelve-coffin  deep, 
of  the  "  six  -  hundred  -  year  -  old  -  families  "  are 
always  whispering,  questioning  about  the  per- 
fection of  the  pigs  or  the  pangs  of  the  rheumatics 
— and  the  dead  are  very  wise  and  know  those  who 
are  worthy  and  honest  of  intention. 


24  H.   G.   WELLS 

This  is  Wells's  Essex.  So  he  sees  it,  and  so  he 
believes  it  will  continue  to  remain. 

Before  I  bring  this  chapter  to  an  end,  I  feel 
that  a  word  or  two  on  the  intense  vein  of  his 
sincerity  will  be  appropriate.  Nobody  could 
possibly  accuse  him  of  hypocrisy.  As  the  Rt. 
Hon.  C.  F.  G.  Masterman  has  written  :  "  He 
tells  the  truth  about  himself — in  personal  con- 
fessions and  writings  and  thinly  disguised 
incidents  in  many  of  his  novels — because  he  feels 
a  kind  of  compulsion  to  tell  it.  He  is  of  the  race 
of  Augustine,  of  Rousseau,  of  Montaigne,  of 
Tolstoi.  He  may  be  in  part  standing  aside, 
interested,  watching,  as  Montaigne  watched  the 
working  of  this  queer  homunculus,  and  recording 
it  as  an  examiner  might  record  the  working  of  a 
watch  or  a  dynamo,  hitherto  unknown.  He 
records  it  partly  without  doubt,  because  he  hates 
the  lies  and  deceptions  which  are  the  alternative — 
for  the  same  reason  as  Tolstoi  made  his  confes- 
sions or  Augustine  produced  his  immortal  work. 
He  would  not  have  anyone  believe  him  to  be 
anything  but  what  he  is.  He  will  not  permit 
a  repetition  of  the  Carlyle  experience — a 
monstrous  figure  of  perfection,  preaching  a  gospel 
to  a  million  followers,  suddenly,  after  his  death 
revealed  in  records  and  diaries  as  in  life  almost 
the  negation  of  his  preaching." 

His  defiant  and  determined  resistance  to  the 
newspaper  interviewer  is  only  another  sign  of  his 
unfettered  veracity.  He  knows  that  a  man's 


PRELIMINARY   SURVEY  25 

views  and  casual  remarks  are  often  so  contorted 
and  mishandled  by  this  fraternity  that  they 
become  very  deceptive,  and  he  evades  them  at 
every  turn.  I  had  occasion  once,  myself,  to  apply 
to  him  for  an  interview  and  he  very  rightly  refused 
me.  This  interviewing  is  a  ghoulish  business  ! 
All  the  world  knows  that  much  of  it  is  pure  hum- 
bug, and  besides,  Wells's  great  horror  is  to  be 
44  on  show."  Anyway,  no  interviewer  could  have 
given  a  more  faithful  picture  of  the  author  than 
is  to  be  found  in  "  Mr.  Britling  sees  it  Through." 
One  can  recognise  the  record  of  his  own  personal 
experience  in  the  following  paragraph  in  which 
Mr.  Direck  first  meets  Mr.  Britling  : 

44  Drooping  out  of  the  country  costume  of 
golfing  tweeds  he  had  expected  to  see  the  mildly 
unhappy  face,  pensive  even  to  its  drooping 
moustache,  with  which  Mr.  Britling's  publisher 
had  for  some  faulty  and  unfortunate  reason 
familiarised  the  American  public.  Instead  of 
this,  Mr.  Britling  was  in  a  miscellaneous  costume, 
and  mildness  was  the  last  quality  one  could 
attribute  to  him.  His  moustache,  his  hair,  his 
eyebrows  bristled ;  his  flaming  freckled  face 
seemed  about  to  bristle  too.  His  little  hazel 
eyes  came  out  with  a  4  ping  '  and  looked  at  Mr. 
Direck.  Mr.  Britling  was  one  of  a  large  but  still 
remarkable  class  of  people  who  seem  at  the  mere 
approach  of  photography  to  change  their  hair, 
their  clothes,  their  moral  natures.  No  photo- 
grapher had  ever  caught  a  hint  of  his  essential 


26  H.   G.    WELLS 

Britlingness  and  bristlingness.  Only  the  camera 
could  ever  induce  Mr.  Britling  to  brush  his  hair, 
and  for  the  camera  alone  did  he  reserve  that 
expression  of  submissive  martyrdom  Mr.  Direck 
knew." 

He  has  been  called  a  despot,  a  dictator  and 
an  egotist  by  certain  sections  of  the  socialist 
community,  and  I  think  he  can  afford  to  plead 
guilty  to  all  these  titles.  He  is  a  tyrant  and 
dictator  without  a  shadow  of  doubt.  He  is  a 
helpful  tyrant,  a  mellow  sunny  despot,  but  a 
tyrant  all  the  same.  In  his  latest  revelation 
"  The  Secret  Places  of  the  Heart "  we  find 
much  of  the  Wellsian  tyranny  introduced  in 
Sir  Richmond  Hardy,  the  middle-aged  Don 
Juan.  Here  he  tyrannically  explores  the  souls 
of  his  fellow-citizens,  and  brings  to  light  those 
ghosts  of  the  unconscious  mind  which  are  con- 
stantly preparing  snares  for  their  good  designs, 
and  those  ghosts  are  the  shadows  which  still 
haunt  the  twilight  patches  in  the  rational  mind 
of  man — the  ghosts  of  lust  and  greed  and 
cruelty.  But  he  has  first  found  such  elements 
by  despotically  hunting  for  them  in  his  own 
preserves,  and  by  dissecting  the  secret  places 
of  his  heart  before  the  world.  That  is  the 
tyranny  of  H.  G.  Wells — the  tyranny  of  personal 
confession,  which  is  his  own,  and  at  the  same 
moment  all  the  world's.  And  as  for  dictatorship, 
the  man  who  advances  on  confusion  and  trans- 
forms it  into  cosmos,  is  of  necessity  an  egotist. 


PRELIMINARY   SURVEY  27 

All  lively  helpful  men  are  egotists  just  in  pro- 
portion as  they  have  the  power  to  live  usefully 
and  happily.  To  benefit  the  world,  a  man  must 
be  an  optimist  and  an  egotist  in  the  same  way 
that  Wells  is,  and  also  be  tinctured  with  a 
modicum  of  dissatisfaction  with  past  achieve- 
ments. The  Wellsian  guiding  idea  is  :  "If  what 
you  have  performed  in  the  past  looks  wonderful 
to  you,  you  haven't  done  much  to-day."  So 
to  sum  up  his  pronounced  qualities  as  revealed 
by  his  novels  we  get  the  following  formula : 
Health  and  liveliness  through  useful  activity 
(hockey  on  Sunday  afternoon  looms  largely  as 
useful  activity  !),  patience — not  too  much ! — 
persistency,  willingness  to  give  and  take, 
seasoned  with  discontent  to  prevent  smugness, 
long  spells  of  irritation  and  indignation  over 
the  foolishness  and  wickedness  of  men  who 
prevent  themselves  from  making  existence  a 
fair  and  happy  thing,  and  a  great  simple  fearless- 
ness which  has  never  been  turned  or  muzzled 
by  the  desire  to  "  pose,"  obtain  applause,  or 
grind  an  axe. 

Wells  has  the  confidence  of  the  thinking 
public — he  is  a  safe  man. 

Perhaps  we  should  write  him  down  as  a 
literary  prodigy.  "  The  Stolen  Bacillus  and 
Other  Stories "  appeared  in  1895  when  the 
author  was  still  quite  young,  and  we  may  assume 
that  for  some  years  before  the  publication  of 
this  volume  he  had  been  an  adept  in  the  difficult 


28  H.   G.    WELLS 

art  of  the  short  story.  In  his  early  short  stories 
there  are  hints  of  all  the  powers  of  an  expert 
craftsman.  The  Wells  of  twenty-five  is  just 
as  crafty,  alert  and  lavishly  fertile  in  fancy  as 
the  Wells  of  to-day.  His  early  stories  are 
unfinished  drafts  which  he  has  developed  more 
elaborately  and  insolently  in  his  later  work ; 
but  so  far  as  style  or  literary  cunning  is  con- 
cerned we  must  acknowledge  that  such  a  story 
as  the  "  Lord  of  the  Dynamos  "  leaves  little 
room  for  advancement.  Like  Rudyard  Kipling, 
he  was  a  "  strong  man  "  in  the  world  of  literature, 
and  the  world  has  always  been  ready  to  welcome 
the  strong  man.  He  had  a  lusty  air,  or  to  use  a 
gruff  Saxon  phrase,  he  had  "  guts."  The  only 
real  aristocracy  is  the  aristocracy  of  character. 
He  possessed  a  lusty  air,  a  cocksureness,  and 
certain  traces  of  brutality  which  quickly  gathered 
about  him  a  world-wide  public.  Few  authors 
have  so  plainly  stamped  their  work  with  the 
hall-mark  of  genius  in  their  earliest  years. 

It  is  true  that  he  is  a  barbarian  in  regard  to 
literary  usage ;  and  whenever  he  talks  about 
art  he  talks  as  though  it  is  a  side  show  of  little 
importance.  The  artist  who  has  "  cultivated 
an  extreme  sensibility  to  colour  from  earliest 
years  "  and  lives  a  life  of  fancy  and  meditation 
irritates  him.  I  believe  that  it  is  possible  for 
the  designer  of  a  torpedo-boat  to  be  lured  away 
from  practical  things  by  a  craving  for  line  and 
beauty,  in  the  same  way  that  a  novelist  may  be 
led  astray  by  the  fetish-worship  of  style.  Wells 


PRELIMINARY  SURVEY  29 

is  very  fretful  about  art,  and  he  speaks  most 
directly  of  his  thoughts  concerning  the  literary 
artist  in  "  Boon." 

"  The  way  of  doing  isn't  the  end.  First  the 
end  must  be  judged — and  then  if  you  like  talk 
of  how  it  is  done.  Get  there  as  splendidly  as 
possible.  But  get  there.  James  and  George 
Moore  neither  of  them  take  it  like  that.  They 
leave  out  getting  there,  or  the  thing  they  get 
to  is  so  trivial  as  to  amount  to  scarcely  more 
than  an  omission  .  .  .  ." 

There  is  a  tale — The  Hammerpond  Park 
Burglary — in  which  he  relates  how  Mr.  Watkins, 
a  celebrated  burglar,  came  to  the  "  Coach  and 
Horses "  at  Hammerpond  in  Sussex  in  order 
to  separate  Lady  Aveling  from  her  diamonds 
and  other  personal  bric-a-brac.  He  determined 
to  make  his  visit  in  the  guise  of  a  landscape 
artist,  and  is  welcomed  at  the  inn  with  much 
enthusiasm  by  half-a-dozen  other  brethren 
of  the  brush.  Next  day  Mr.  Watkins  strolled 
through  the  beech-woods  to  Hammerpond  Park, 
and  at  sunset  pitched  his  easel  with  virgin  canvas 
in  a  strategic  position  before  the  house  upon 
which  he  was  directing  burglarious  intentions. 
But  one  of  the  artists  passing  him  at  the  time 
was  staggered  by  his  complete  freedom  in  the 
matter  of  mixing  colours  and  the  irregular  use 
of  a  brilliant  emerald  green  : 

4  What  on  earth  are  you  going  to  do  with 
that  beastly  green  ?  "  said  Sant. 


30  H.   G.   WELLS 

Mr.  Watkins  realised  that  his  zeal  to  appear 
busy  in  the  eyes  of  the  butler  had  evidently 
betrayed  him  into  some  technical  error.  He 
looked  at  Sant  and  hesitated. 

"  Pardon  my  rudeness,"  said  Sant ;  "  but 
really,  that  green  is  altogether  too  amazing. 
It  came  as  a  shock.  What  do  you  mean  to 
do  with  it  ?  " 

Mr.  Watkins  was  collecting  his  resources. 
Nothing  could  save  the  situation  but  decision. 
"If  you  come  here  interrupting  my  work," 
he  said,  "  I'm  a-goin'  to  paint  your  face  with  it." 

Sant  retired,  for  he  was  a  humorist  and  a 
peaceful  man.  Going  down  the  hill  he  met 
Person  and  Wainwright.  "  Either  that  man 
is  a  genius  or  he  is  a  dangerous  lunatic,"  he  said. 

Now  Wells  seems  to  incline  rather  to  the 
methods  of  Mr.  Watkins  than  to  those  of  the 
true  artists,  for  he  is  always  eager  to  paint 
someone's  face  with  his  own  peculiar  colour. 
His  attack  on  Henry  James  in  his  "  Boon " 
is  an  example  of  the  Wells  method  of  face 
painting.  For  James,  art  was  the  soul  of  all 
things  ;  in  fact  he  was  suffering  from  a  certain 
mental  hysteria  which  craved  perfection  in  art. 
Wells  has  remarked  of  him  that  his  mind  was 
poisoned  in  early  life  by  studio  lounging,  and 
goes  on  to  say  :  "  Thought  about  pictures 
even  might  be  less  studio-ridden  than  it  is. 
But  James  has  never  discovered  that  a  novel 
isn't  a  picture  .  ,  .  .  That  life  isn't  a 
studio  ." 


CHAPTER   II 

EARLY  STRUGGLES 

HERBERT  GEORGE  WELLS  was  born  at  47,  High 
Street,  Bromley,  on  September  21st,  1866,  the  son 
of  Joseph  Wells,  a  great  Kent  bowler  in  the  early 
'sixties,  who,  it  is  said,  is  portrayed  in  the 
author's  essay  "  The  Veteran  Cricketer."  His 
intimacy  with  tradesfolk  was  determined  at 
birth,  for  he  first  saw  daylight  amid  the  pots  and 
pans  and  mixed  commodities  of  a  small  general 
shop  in  the  country.  This  shop  is  described 
with  fair  accuracy  in  "  The  War  in  the  Air  "  : 

"  Even  from  the  first  the  greengrocer's  shop 
which  he  had  set  up  in  one  of  the  smallest  of 
the  old  surviving  village  houses  in  the  tail  of  the 
High  Street  had  a  submerged  air,  an  air  of 
hiding  from  something  that  was  looking  for  it. 
When  they  had  made  up  the  pavement  of  the 
High  Street,  they  levelled  that  up  so  that  one  had 
to  go  down  three  steps  into  the  shop." 

Bun  Hill,  the  idyllic  Kentish  village  of  "  The 
War  in  the  Air,"  is  a  Wells  landmark  of  import- 
ance, for  it  is  the  point  whence  starts  one  of  his 
best  novels,  and  it  is  in  reality  the  market  town 
of  Bromley,  the  author's  birth-place.  A  clue  is 
found  in  Wells's  description  of  it : 

'*  The  Crystal  Palace  was  six  miles  away  from 


32  H.   G.   WELLS 

Bun  Hill,  a  great  facade  that  glittered  in  the 
morning,  and  was  a  clear  blue  outline  against  the 
sky  in  the  afternoon,  and  of  a  night  a  source  of 
gratuitous  fireworks  for  all  the  population  of  Bun 
Hill.  And  then  had  come  the  railway,  and  then 
villas  and  villas,  and  then  the  gas-works  and  the 
water-works,  and  a  great  ugly  sea  of  workmen's 
houses,  and  then  drainage,  and  the  water  vanished 
out  of  the  Otterbourne  and  left  it  a  dreadful  ditch, 
and  then  a  second  railway  station,  Bun  Hill  South, 
and  more  houses  and  more,  more  shops,  more 
competition,  plate-glass  shops,  a  school-board, 
rates,  omnibuses,  tramcars — going  right  away 
into  London  itself — bicycles,  motor-cars,  and  then 
more  motor-cars,  a  Carnegie  library." 

Bromley  is  entered  from  the  borders  of  smoke- 
dom  at  Catford,  by  Bromley  Hill,  from  the  crest  of 
which  Bert  Smallways  watched  Butteridge 
return  to  the  Crystal  Palace  after  flying  for  about 
nine  hours.  Bromley  is  postally  described  as 
*'  in  Kent  "  to  distinguish  it  from  the  east-end 
Bromley,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Thames.  The 
surviving  village  houses  mentioned  by  Wells 
are  still  standing  in  the  High  Street  near  the 
17th  century  buildings  of  Bromley  College.  Over 
their  roofs  three  centuries  have  passed,  and  the 
quaint  coaching  inn  almost  next  door  is  a  place 
of  story  and  romance.  Perchance,  the  small  glass, 
china  and  miscellaneous  shop  was  established 
by  Joseph  Wells  in  one  of  these  flat-faced  old- 
world  houses,  and  it  was  here  that  the  author 


EARLY   STRUGGLES  33 

first  followed  with  painful  and  perplexed  interest 
the  steady  breaking  up  of  the  small  tradesmen 
before  the  tide  of  prosperous  stores.  Anyway, 
his  father's  shop  was  not  successful. 

"  My  father  was  one  of  that  multitude  of  small 
shop-keepers  which  had  been  caught  between 
the  '  Stores  '  above  and  the  rising  rates  below ; 
and  from  the  knickerbocker  stage  onward,  I 
was  acutely  aware  of  the  question  hanging  over 
us." 

The  shadow  of  failure  that  presided  over  his 
home  in  those  days  enabled  him  to  give  us  some 
vivid  pages  in  "  New  Worlds  for  Old." 

"  In  the  little  High  Street  of  Sandgate  over 
which  my  house  looks,  I  should  say  between  a 
quarter  and  a  third  of  the  shops  are  just  down- 
ward channels  from  decency  to  despair  ;  they 
are  sanctioned,  inevitable  citizen-breakers.  Now 
it  is  a  couple  of  old  servants  opening  a  '  fancy  ' 
shop  or  a  tobacco  shop,  now  it  is  a  young  couple 
plunging  into  the  haberdashery,  now  it  is  a  new 
butcher  or  a  new  fishmonger  or  a  grocer.  This 
perpetual  procession  of  bankruptcies  has  made 
me  lately  shun  that  pleasant-looking  street, 
that  in  my  unthinking  days  I  walked  through 
cheerfully  enough.  The  doomed  victims  have  a 
way  of  coming  to  the  doors  at  first  and  looking  out 
politely  and  hopefully  ....  Presently 
the  stock  in  the  window  begins  to  deteriorate  in 
quantity  and  quality,  and  then  I  know  that  credit 
is  tightening.  The  proprietor  no  longer  comes 

D 


34  H.   G.   WELLS 

to  the  door,  and  his  first  bright  confidence  is 
gone  He  regards  one  now  through  the  darkling 
panes  with  a  gloomy  animosity.  He  suspects 
one  all  too  truly  of  dealing  with  the  4  Stores  '  . 
.  .  Then  suddenly  he  has  gone ;  the  savings 
have  gone,  and  the  shop — like  a  hungry  maw — 
waits  for  a  new  victim." 

His  mother,  he  tells  us,  was  the  daughter  of  an 
innkeeper  at  Midhurst  (the  scene  of  the  climax  of 
Hoopdriver's  ten  glorious  days  of  romance  in 
"  The  Wheels  of  Chance  "),  where  the  "  Spread 
Eagle,"  one  of  the  most  famous  inns  in  England, 
is  a  great  attraction.  His  grandfather  was  head- 
gardener  at  Penshurst,  and  very  possibly 
figures  in  "  The  War  in  the  Air "  as  Mr. 
Smallways'  aged  father  who  could  remember 
Bun  Hill  as  an  idyllic  Kentish  village  :  "  He 
sat  by  the  fireside,  a  shrivelled,  very,  very  old 
coachman,  full  charged  with  reminiscenses  and 
ready  for  any  careless  stranger.  He  could  tell 
you  of  the  vanished  estate  of  Sir  Peter  Bone, 
long  since  cut  up  for  building,  and  how  that 
magnate  ruled  the  country-side  when  it  was 
country-side,  of  shooting  and  hunting  and  of 
coaches  along  the  high  road,  of  how  c  where  the 
gas-works  is  '  was  a  cricket-field,  and  of  the  com- 
ing of  the  Crystal  Palace." 

After  the  hopeless  fight  against  fate  in  the  small 
shop  at  Bromley,  the  novelist's  mother  was  fortu- 
nate enough  to  meet  with  a  comfortable  and  well- 
paid  berth  as  housekeeper  to  her  former  mistress, 


EARLY   STRUGGLES  85 

Miss  Fetherstonhaugh,  at  Up  Park,  near 
Petersfield — the  Bladesover  of  "  Tono-Bungay," 
and,  perhaps,  a  memory  of  the  Burnmore  Park 
of  "  The  Passionate  Friends." 

Wells  received  his  early  education  at  two 
schools  at  Bromley.  First  he  was  sent  as  a  pupil 
to  a  "  dame's  "  school  for  very  young  children, 
and  afterwards  to  Mr.  T.  Morley's  Bromley 
Academy. 

For  a  time  he  was  with  his  mother  in  the  much 
cupboarded,  white  painted  housekeeper's  room 
at  Petersfield,  absorbing  the  manners  and 
familiar  talk  of  valets,  ladies' -maids  and  butlers. 
Here  he  had  every  chance  to  study  the  strict 
etiquette  and  customs  of  the  British  aristocracy 
and  to  follow  the  social  scale  downwards  to  the 
village  doctor  and  the  vicar.  The  picture  of  the 
housekeeper  in  "  Tono-Bungay  "  is  a  composite 
one,  and  is  not  really  a  true  portrait  of  his  mother 
— a  very  charming  little  lady,  who  is  remembered 
with  high  regard  by  a  large  circle  of  Wells's  friends. 

While  at  Petersfield,  we  may  hazard,  he 
"  surreptitiously  raided  "  the  bookcases  in  the 
big  saloon,  and  devoured  among  other  note- 
worthy books  "  Vathek  " — "  glorious  stuff. 
That  kicking  affair  !  When  everybody  had  to 
kick  !  " 

This  brings  us  to  the  year  1878,  and  Wells  is 
twelve  years  of  age. 

After  that  came  "  the  drapery,"  and  he  entered 


36  H.   G.   WELLS 

a  shop  at  Windsor*  in  1879,  where  there  is  reason 
to  suppose  that  he  substituted  "  Gulliver  "  and 
Tom  Paine's  "  Rights  of  Man  "  for  the  account 
books  of  his  master,  and  became  rather  rebellious. 
Stevenson's  essay,  "  A  Defence  of  Idlers,"  shows 
that  no  time  is  really  wasted,  not  even  that  which 
is  idled  away  with  a  book.    But  this  point  is  very 
hard  to  explain  to  a  very  illiterate  and  matter- 
of-fact  head  of  a  drapery  emporium.    We  have  no 
exact   autobiography   of  this   period,    only   the 
details  and  incidents  of  life  in  the  drapery  trade 
during  those  years.     His  distaste  for  the  shop 
life   led    to    his    early    transference    as    a   pupil 
teacher  to  his  cousin,   Mr.  Williams,   a  school- 
master, at  Wookey,  in  Somerset.     "  That  didn't 
do,"  writes  Wells,  "  there  was  something  wrong 
with    my    cousin's    certificates     and     I     spent 
Christmas,    1879,    at    Up    Park.     .     .     .     Then 
I  went  to  Cowah,   a  chemist  of  Midhurst,   on 
trial   as   an   apprentice,    but   I  wouldn't  go   on 
with   that   because   I   didn't  think   my  mother 
would  be  able  to  pay  the  costs  of  all  my  pro- 
fessional  training."     Midhurst   is   the   Wimble- 
hurst     of     "  Tono-Bungay  " — an      undisturbed 
country    town — where    "  if     the     last     Trump 
sounded     .     .     .     nobody  would  wake     .     .     . 
and  the  chaps  up  there  in  the  churchyard  they'd 
turn  over  and  say  :    4  Naar — you  don't  catch  us, 
you  don't !    See  !  '  " 

It  was  perhaps  a  favouring  and  wise  Providence 

*  Mr.  Geoffrey  H.  Wells  believes  the  name  of  this  establishment  to 
be  Messrs.  Rogers  and  Denyres. 


EARLY   STRUGGLES  37 

that  removed  our  budding  Utopian  from  the 
emporium,  for  he  might  have  turned  his  thoughts 
to  arson — which  he  has  hinted  would  be  the 
correct  method  to  remove  such  cheerless  and 
soul-grinding  places  as  drapery  shops. 

The  chemist's  shop  at  Midhurst  was  kept  by 
those  dream  people  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ponderevo — 
Ponderevo,  the  dreamer  of  dreams,  the  inimitable 
Teddy  who  was  always  wading  waist  deep  in 
the  romance  of  commerce  :  "  Think  of  having 
all  the  quinine  in  the  world,  and  some  million- 
aire's pampered  wife  gone  ill  with  malaria,  eh  ? 
That's  a  squeeze,  George,  eh  ?  Eh  ?  Millionaire 
in  his  motor  car  outside,  offering  you  any  price 
you  liked.  That  'ud  wake  up  Wimblehurst  .  .  . 
Lord  !  " 

About  May,  1880,  he  was  apprenticed  to  a 
draper  with  an  extensive  business  at  Southsea, 
During  the  two  years  he  spent  there  he  learnt 
much  about  the  art  and  mystery  of  the  trade  : 
"  Dimly  he  perceived  how  the  great  stupid 
machine  of  retail  trade  had  caught  his  life  into 
its  wheels,  a  vast,  irresistible  force  which  he 
had  neither  strength  of  will  nor  knowledge 
to  escape.  This  was  to  be  his  life  until  his  days 
should  end.  No  adventures,  no  glory,  no  change, 
no  freedom.  Neither — though  the  force  of 
that  came  home  to  him  later — might  he  dream 
of  effectual  love  and  marriage.  And  there  was  a 
terrible  something  called  the  '  swap,'  of  '  the  key 
of  the  street,'  and  '  crib  hunting,'  of  which 


38  H.   G.   WELLS 

the  talk  was  scanty  but  sufficient.  Night  after 
night  he  would  resolve  to  enlist,  to  run  away 
to  sea,  to  set  fire  to  the  warehouse,  or  drown 
himself,  and  morning  after  morning  he  rose  up 
and  hurried  downstairs  in  fear  of  a  sixpenny 
fine." 

Wells,  writing  to  a  relation,  remarks  that  he 
"stuck  that  hell  of  a  life"  till  August,  1882 
.  .  .  "  then  I  declared  I  would  kill  myself 
if  I  could  not  have  my  indentures  cancelled." 

Eventually  he  determined  to  "  stash  up " 
his  indentures  in  order  to  complete  his  education, 
and  we  find  him  an  assistant  master  at  Midhurst 
Grammar  School  at  the  age  of  sixteen.  In 
his  study  of  "  Mr.  Polly  "  he  has  given  us  an 
imaginative  picture  of  what  his  life  might  have 
been  had  he  decided  to  stick  to  his  "  crib  "  in 
the  drapery.  At  this  point  we  follow  in  the 
tracks  of  "  Love  and  Mr.  Lewisham "  and 
discover  H.  G.  Wells  in  the  "  passable-looking 
youngster "  who  is  assistant  master  in  the 
Whortley  Proprietary  School.  We  know  it  is 
Wells  by  the  uncanny  and  machine-like  applica- 
tion which  he  brings  to  his  work  : 

"  Up  and  busy  at  five,  with  all  the  world 
about  one  horizontal,  warm,  dreamy-brained 
or  stupidly  bullish.  By  eight,  three  hours'  clear 
start,  three  hours'  knowledge  ahead  of  every 
one.  It  takes,  I  have  been  told  by  an  eminent 
scholar,  about  a  thousand  hours  of  sincere  work 
to  learn  a  language  completely — after  three 


EARLY   STRUGGLES  39 

or  four  languages  much  less — which  gives  you, 
even  at  the  outset,  one  each  a  year  before  break- 
fast. Could  anything  be  simpler  or  more 
magnificent  ?  In  six  years  Mr.  Lewisham  will 
have  his  five  or  six  languages,  a  sound,  all- 
round  education,  a  habit  of  tremendous  industry, 
and  still  be  four-and-twenty." 

Mr.  Horace  Byatt,  M.A.,  headmaster  at  the 
Midhurst  Grammar  School,  perceived  that  Wells 
was  a  brilliant  youngster,  and  was  greatly  im- 
pressed by  his  rapid  progress  in  Latin  and  science. 
He  was  assistant  at  Midhurst  in  September,  1882, 
and  remained  there  until  September,  1883. 

When  Mr.  Lewisham  obtains  a  scholarship 
at  the  Normal  School  of  Science,  South 
Kensington,  he  duplicates  Wells's  performance 
in  real  life  ;  but  at  this  point  we  drop  Lewisham, 
to  follow  Wells  as  a  teacher  in  training  to  South 
Kensington  in  September,  1883.  In  1886  he 
moved  from  Kensington  to  a  school  at  Holt,  near 
Wrexham,  North  Wales,  and  very  shortly  after 
was  injured  in  the  football-field.  A  year  of 
enforced  inactivity  at  Up  Park  followed.  He 
came  to  London  in  1887  and  obtained  an 
assistant-mastership  at  the  Henley  House 
School,  St.  John's  Wood,  and  so  by  way  of 
editing  the  Henley  House  Magazine  (which  was 
started  by  Alfred  Harmsworth),  to  the  Street- 
of-Ink  and  the  life  of  the  literary  Bohemian. 
Rudyard  Kipling  had  arrived  from  India,  and 
had  taken  up  his  quarters  in  Villiers  Street 


40  H.   G.   WELLS 

four  years  before  Wells  passed,  from  the  com- 
bined post  of  tutor  and  lecturer  at  the  University 
Correspondence  Classes,  held  in  Red  Lion  Square, 
to  the  trade  of  letters. 

It  was  while  Wells  was  acting  as  assistant  to 
Dr.  Milne  at  the  Henley  House  School,  from 
1887  to  1889,  that  he  obtained  his  B.Sc.  degree 
with  a  first-class  honours  in  zoology  and  a  second 
in  geology. 

Wells  at  this  time  had  been  burning  the 
midnight  oil  and  generally  overworking  himself, 
and  a  breakdown  in  the  form  of  the  sudden 
bursting  of  a  blood-vessel  to  his  lungs  at  Charing 
Cross  Station  was  regarded  as  a  sign  to  "  knock 
off  work  "  for  a  while.  There  can  be  but  little 
surprise  that  he  was  "  bowled  out "  during 
this  strenuous  period  when  we  consider  his 
persistence  in  filling  "  the  unforgiving  minute 
with  sixty  seconds'  worth  of  distance  run." 
The  classes  at  Red  Lion  Square  demanded 
a  mind  that  never  wavered  a  moment' — a  quick 
concentrated  mind  always  ready  to  demonstrate. 
This  was  tricky  work,  and  Wells  with  his  uncanny 
cleverness  and  enthusiasm  brought  into  it 
twice  as  much  physical  force  as  the  ordinary 
lecturer.  He  was  always  on  the  steam.  The 
class-rooms  were  badly  supplied  with  fresh 
air  and  he  was  getting  no  severe  bodily  exercise 
to  counteract  the  evil  effect  of  brain  fag.  What 
little  time  he  had  was  given  to  writing  a  manual 
of  biology.  The  breakdown  was  inevitable. 


EARLY   STRUGGLES  41 

Complete  rest  was  the  physician's  order,  but 
of  course  he  did  not  know  the  kind  of  human 
volcano  he  was  attending  or  he  would  not  have 
wasted  time  and  words  on  that  kind  of  counsel. 
The  young  lecturer  had  forty  pounds  put  away 
in  the  bank,  and  with  this  as  his  sheet-anchor 
he  retreated  to  lodgings  in  Eastbourne.  His 
recovery  was  rapid,  and  soon  his  vitality  was 
passing  into  humorous  articles  for  the  Pall 
Mall  Gazette,  then  conducted  by  Harry  Gust. 
Nobody  but  the  unsuppressible  Wells  could 
have  written  such  high-spirited  articles  in  such 
an  awkward  plight.  It  is  true  that  Stevenson 
wrote  :  "  The  world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of 
things,  I'm  sure  we  should  all  be  as  happy  as 
kings  "  under  corresponding  conditions,  but  we 
also  discover  Wells  insisting  that  the  world 
at  all  times  is  full  of  laughter.  Here  was  our 
young  author  and  his  promising  career  held 
up  in  a  cul-de-sac,  and  his  body  so  weak  that 
a  journey  down  to  the  beach  was  an  odyssey  of 
effort  to  him,  quite  cheerful  and  alert.  He  was 
as  resilient  as  an  india-rubber  ball.  The  whole 
secret  of  his  success  is  his  saving  grace  of  humour. 
No  one  could  accuse  him  of  lacking  the  cheerful 
and  keen  outlook  on  life.  It  has  been  asserted 
that  most  men  would  rather  plead  guilty  to 
the  charge  of  murder  than  to  the  charge  of 
being  without  a  sense  of  humour.  The  humour 
sense  directs  a  man's  emotions  to  points  where 
they  are  useful  in  helping  him  to  acquire  the 


42  H.   G.   WELLS 

saving  faculty  of  self-criticism  and  self-restraint, 
and  it  is  through  the  lack  of  it  that  we  become 
morbid,  feverish,  querulous,  impulsive — always 
looking  for  offence,  and  of  course  finding  it. 
It  has  been  suggested  that  Shakespeare  might 
have  said  just  as  aptly  if  he  had  thought  about 
it,  "a  man  without  humour  in  himself  is  only 
fit  for  treasons,  stratagems,  and  spoils  ;  let  no 
such  man  be  trusted."  Emerson  has  told  us 
that  a  man  with  a  lively  perception  of  the 
ludicrous  can  not  be  irrevocably  and  uncon- 
ditionally depraved.  If  a  man  can  laugh  heartily 
he  is  still  convertible.  Further,  Emerson  says 
that . "  when  that  sense  is  lost,  his  fellow  men 
can  do  little  for  him." 

Some  modern  writers  seem  to  suffer  from  a 
positive  dread  of  the  comic  spirit.  They  seem 
to  aim  at  being  wearily  well  bred,  and  a  la  mode. 
Wells  is  always  out  for  fun,  but  it  is  also  very 
noticeable  that  beneath  his  steady  stream  of 
humour  we  find  a  perfectly  consistent  and 
rather  saddening  current  of  censure. 

Of  the  time  when  he  was  still  struggling  for 
his  place,  and  those  early  struggles  were  as 
acute  as  Grub  Street  has  ever  known,  he  once 
confided  to  a  literary  friend  :  "I  always  wanted 
to  write,  but  I  suppose  that  is  a  disease  which 
manifests  itself  in  everybody's  youth.  As  a 
boy  I  amused  myself  by  producing  a  comic  paper 
in  imitation  of  Punch.  I  had  an  exceptionally 
hard  time  of  it  when  I  was  trying  to  gain  a 


EARLY  STRUGGLES  43 

footing  in  journalism.  I  could  get  very  little 
printed.  With  the  exception  of  a  stray  article 
or  so  in  the  educational  journals  and  one  in  the 
Fortnightly  Review,  I  had  only  one  manuscript 
accepted  in  four  years.  And  I  devoted 
practically  the  whole  of  my  leisure — I  was  then 
an  examination  crammer — to  writing.  I  fancy 
I  must  have  submitted  my  work  to  papers  to 
which  it  was  unsuited. 

"  I  had  one  woefully  anxious  period.  A 
lung  went  wrong  and  falling  violently  ill  I  had 
to  relinquish  my  cramming  classes,  and  while 
lying  on  my  back  it  was  imperative  that  I 
should  write  articles  and  sell  them  or  go  to  the 
parish  infirmary.  By  a  stroke  of  good  fortune, 
which  came  in  the  nick  of  time,  I  chanced  to 
read  J.  M.  Barrie's  4  When  a  Man's  Single,'  and 
there  I  found  a  number  of  useful  hints  and  almost 
immediately  caught  on  to  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette" 

The  publication  of  his  humorous  articles 
in  the  P.M.G.  urged  him  forward  to  health 
and  literary  production.  Mr.  Thomas  Seccombe 
in  a  very  keen  article  in  The  Bookman  (April, 
1914)  gives  some  interesting  facts  regarding 
the  first  literary  men  who  stood  by  the  young 
author  and  praised  his  early  work  : 

"  From  being  entirely  unknown  among  quill- 
drivers,  he  began  to  be  recognised  as  a  recruit 
of  almost  inconceivable  promise.  He  was 
hailed  by  Henley  and  George  Steevens  ;  among 
his  earlier  acquaintances  in  the  craft  were 


44  H.   G.    WELLS 

Marriot  Watson  and  R.  A.  M.  Stevenson.  A 
little  later  on  he  was  on  friendly  terms  with 
Grant  Allen,  Edward  Clodd,  George  Gissing, 
and  Le  Gallienne.  To  these  must  be  added 
Frank  Harris,  who  recognised  his  ability  by 
opening  to  him  both  the  Fortnightly  Review 
and  the  Saturday.  Hitherto,  he  had  seen  him- 
self in  print  mainly  in  educational  papers  and 
in  the  proofs  of  biological  primers  and  manuals. 
Now  he  became  a  recognised  writer  in  the  Press, 
in  the  stalls  of  the  theatres,  reviewing  books 
both  scientific  and  literary.  This  journalistic 
year  was  1894-5.  Then  came  another  shattering 
breakdown,  which  necessitated  his  turning  from 
journalism  to  authorship  proper ;  and  he  was 
very  soon  established  at  Woking,  building  up 
for  the  third  time,  and  permanently,  as  it  proved, 
a  new  source  of  regular  and  abundant  income. 
Henceforth  his  life  is  submerged  in  his  author- 
ship. But  in  the  meantime,  something  very 
important  had  happened.  In  the  Royal  College 
of  Science  journal,  The  Phoenix*  which  Wells 
started,  and  which  still  lives,  he  had  outlined 
a  sketch  of  the  romantic  possibilities  of  a  fourth 
dimension.  During  a  slack  time  in  the  summer 
of  1894,  when  editors  were  not  printing  his 
work  very  freely  and  the  outlook  was  doubtful, 
he  took  this  sketch  and  in  a  fortnight  of  hard 
work  he  re-shaped  it  into  a  serial ;  fragments 
appeared  in  the  National  Observer ;  the  whole, 

*  The  title  then  was   The  Science    Schools    Journal.     It  was 
re-named  on  its  revival  about  1900. 


EARLY  STRUGGLES  45 

or  nearly  the  whole,  appeared  as  *  The  Time 
Traveller's  Story '  in  Henley's  New  Review. 
He  obtained  £100  for  the  serial  rights,  and 
Heinemann  published  the  little  volume  as 
*  The  Time  Machine :  An  Invention,'  with  a 
dedication  to  W.  E.  Henley,  in  1895.  The  fame 
of  this  wonderful  little  book  spread  by  oral 
transmission,  for  very  little  was  done  for  it  by 
the  papers,  always  on  the  alert  against  un- 
authorised talent." 

In  October,  1895,  he  published  "  The  Wonder- 
ful Visit  "  through  the  house  of  J.  M.  Dent  and 
Co.  This  is  considered  by  many  leading  literary 
men  as  the  most  perfect  of  all  its  author's 
stories.  The  Literary  World  found  it  "  a  clever 
satire  upon  the  social  ideas  and  manners  of  the 
day  "  and  "  thought  it  suggested  Swift  without 
his  coarseness." 

Beginning  now  to  feel  that  his  position  as  a 
writer  was  secure  he  indulged  in  a  little  bravado 
and  literary  sword  play.  He  went  brandishing 
his  sword  and  hitting  out  freely  at  the  empty- 
headed  and  inconsistent  manners  and  ideas 
of  current  beliefs,  and  managed  to  get  some 
very  sharp  thrusts  at  the  smug  society  of  an 
English  country  village  in  "  The  Wonderful  Visit." 
In  the  words  of  the  Literary  World  reviewer  : 

'  The  story  opens  with  the  descent  from  the 
clouds  of  a  strange  bird  which  turns  out  to  be 
an  angel  dressed  in  a  saffron  robe  reaching 
only  to  the  knees.  This,  we  are  told,  is  the 
angel  of  art,  and  not  the  angel  of  religious 


46  H.   G.   WELLS 

feeling,  nor  the  angel  of  popular  belief.  The 
shooting  and  capture  of  this  strange  bird  by  a 
celibate  vicar,  with  the  embarrassments  that 
result  when  the  angel  becomes  the  vicar's  guest 
and  by  stress  of  circumstances  endeavours 
to  behave  as  a  man,  is  told  in  a  few  racy  chapters. 
The  scandal  created  by  the  vicar's  reception 
and  harbouring  of  such  an  odd  personage  is 
cleverly  indicated.  Mrs.  Mendham,  the  curate's 
wife,  who  sees  the  angel  as  he  is  led  in  by  the 
vicar,  mistakes  the  stranger  for  a  woman,  and 
of  course  jumps  to  an  unpleasant  conclusion. 
She  is  scarcely  reassured  by  her  husband's 
report  later,  that  he  had  seen  the  angel  clothed 
in  a  cast-off  suit  of  the  vicar's  clothes.  Next, 
Lady  Hammergallow,  the  leader  of  society  in 
the  neighbourhood,  arrives  at  a  most  damaging 
explanation  of  the  angel's  presence,  connecting 
him  with  a  supposed  irregularity  in  the  vicar's 
early  life.  The  angel,  as  we  have  said,  failing 
to  get  himself  accepted  for  what  he  is,  tries  to 
adapt  himself  to  his  environment,  and  his  efforts 
to  understand  the  ways  and  thoughts  of  the 
people  he  meets  afford  excellent  opportunities 
for  the  indulgence  of  Mr.  Wells's  peculiar  vein 
of  irony.  The  angel,  it  must  be  confessed, 
from  contact  with  mankind,  suffers  a  certain 
deterioration,  and  his  behaviour  in  the  drawing- 
room  of  Lady  Hammergallow  disappoints  our 
expectation.  How  he  ultimately  comes  to  grief 
from  making  love  to  a  maid-servant  and  horse- 
whipping a  brutal  squire,  we  would  leave  the 


EARLY   STRUGGLES  47 

reader  to  discover,  merely  remarking  that  the 
angel's  final  exit  in  a  fire  at  the  vicarage,  in 
the  heroic  attempt  to  save  the  life  of  Delia,  the 
maid-servant,  is  another  l  sorrowful  ending.'  ' 

I  came  across  a  journalist  who  journeyed 
down  to  Sandgate  in  1899  to  interview  Wells, 
and  he  informed  me  that  the  author  regarded 
"  The  Wonderful  Visit  "  with  particular  favour 
at  that  time.  The  same  interviewer  also 
questioned  him  on  how  the  idea  of  the  story  first 
flitted  across  his  brain,  and  elicited  the  fact 
that  it  was  obtained  from  Ruskin's  assertion  that 
if  an  angel  were  to  appear  on  earth  some  one 
would  be  sure  to  shoot  it.  However,  I  have  it 
from  Wells  himself  that  he  now  considers  his 
best  work  lies  between  "  Tono-Bungay "  and 
"  Mr.  Polly  "  and  a  book  he  will  publish  in  1923. 

I  believe  that  the  lightsome,  jaunty,  waggish 
humour  in  much  of  his  work  is  a  sure  sign  that  he 
always  writes  with  a  natural  freedom  from 
sluggishness.  I  do  not  believe  that  he  ever  takes 
up  his  pen  unless  he  feels  buoyant  and  brisk. 
One  feels  instinctively  that  he  does  not  give  a 
fig  for  the  exact,  scholarly  and  cunningly  chiselled 
style  of  work  which  we  always  find  in  morbid 
writers  such  as  Oscar  Wilde  or  Edgar  Allan  Poe. 
He  likes  to  say  a  plain  thing  in  a  plain  way.  He 
is  a  lover  of  freedom,  and  life — of  all  Rabelaisian, 
reckless  laughter — a  lover  of  open  hearts  and 
sportive,  joyous,  jolly,  jaunty  people  the  world 
over.  And  being  free  from  subterfuge  and 


48  H.   G.   WELLS 

hypocrisy,  he  is,  of  course,  eccentric.  He  is  a 
bearer  of  a  message  of  stimulating  hope  in  his 
"  God  the  Invisible  King."  Again  and  again 
he  affirms  that  God,  which  is  the  Everything, 
is  good — he  just  slips  in  an  additional  "  O  "  and 
spells  His  name  Good.  He  does  not  believe  in 
force — only  in  faith.  He  has  more  faith  than  one 
would  at  first  acknowledge.  He  has  faith  in  God, 
and  accepts  life — accepts  everything  and  finds  it 
very  hurtful  and  evil.  And  when  he  finds  it  more 
hurtful  and  evil  than  usual  he  discovers  the 
beauty  of  it  all.  In  the  last  paragraphs  of  "  Mr. 
Britling  Sees  it  Through"  he  especially  emphasizes 
this.  After  the  warring,  jangling  energies  of  the 
world  have  snatched  Britling's  son  away  from 
him,  everything  suddenly  becomes  sinister  and 
wicked.  But  behind  this  jungle  of  blood-stained 
rubbish,  "  these  puny  kings  and  tawdry  emperors, 
these  wily  politicians  and  artful  lawyers,  these 
men  who  claim  and  grab  and  trick  and  compel, 
these  war  makers  and  oppressors,"  a  great  and 
benign  power  is  slowly  appearing,  and  we  end  on 
a  note  of  hopefulness — a  poetic  symbol : 

"  Colour  had  returned  to  the  world,  clean  pearly 
colour,  clear  and  definite  like  the  glance  of  a  child 
or  the  voice  of  a  girl,  and  a  golden  wisp  of  cloud 
hung  in  the  sky  over  the  tower  of  the  church. 
There  was  a  mist  upon  the  pond,  a  grey  soft  mist 
not  a  yard  high.  A  covey  of  partridges  ran 
and  halted  and  ran  again  in  the  dewy  grass 
outside  his  garden  railings.  The  partridges  were 


H.  G.  WELLS,  1899 


50  H.   G.   WELLS 

very  numerous  this  year  because  there  had  been 
so  little  shooting.  Beyond  in  the  meadow  a  hare 
sat  up  as  still  as  a  stone.  A  horse  neighed  .  .  . 
Wave  after  wave  of  warmth  and  light  came 
sweeping  before  the  sunrise  across  the  world  of 
Hatching's  Easy.  It  was  as  if  there  was  nothing 
but  morning  and  sunrise  in  the  world. 

"  From  away  towards  the   church   came   the 

sound  of  some  early  worker  whetting  a  scythe." 

*  *  *  * 

CasselVs  Saturday  Journal  (April  26th,  1899) 
published  an  interview  with  Wells  which  throws 
some  light  on  the  author  at  a  time  when  he  was 
little  interested  in  physical  passion,  polygamous 
men,  and  the  terrors  and  pitfalls  of  marriage. 
It  will  be  noted  that  in  1899  he  possessed  the  same 
Jack-in-the-box  enthusiasm  that  he  possesses 
to-day.  The  following  paragraphs  are  full  of  his 
vehement  personality  and  red-hot  purpose.  It 
was  this  rapid,  questioning,  and  restless  brain 
that  moved  Henry  James  to  write  to  him : 
"  You  stand  alone,  intensely  vivid  and  alone, 
making  nobody  else  signify  at  all."  Wells's 
grasp  of  the  possibilities  of  the  future  in  1899  is 
amazingly  comprehensive.  His  conversation 
quivers  with  inherent  power  and  vigour  : 

"  But  what  is  your  object  in  dealing  with  the 
men  and  women  of  the  future  instead  of  utilising 
men  and  women  as  they  exist  now  ?  " 

"  I  have  a  special  object  in  doing  that.  I  am 
strongly  of  the  opinion  that  we  ought  to  consider 


EARLY  STRUGGLES  51 

the  possibilities  of  the  future  much  more  than  we 
do.  Why  should  four-fifths  of  the  fiction  of 
to-day  be  concerned  with  times  that  can  never 
come  again,  while  the  future  is  scarcely  speculated 
upon  ?  At  present  we  are  almost  helpless  in 
the  grip  of  circumstances,  and  I  think  we  ought 
to  strive  to  shape  our  destinies.  Changes  which 
directly  affect  the  human  race  are  taking  place 
every  day,  but  they  are  passed  over  unobserved." 

"  Do  you  believe  in  all  the  astonishing  things 
you  write  about  in  '  When  the  Sleeper  Wakes  ?  '  " 

"  I  confine  myself  absolutely  to  what  I  consider 
are  possibilities.  I  do  not  seize  upon  any  and 
every  wild  idea  that  comes  into  my  head  just  to 
be  sensational.  If  in  alluding  to  future  events 
an  idea  enters  my  mind  which  is  beyond  reason 
I  reject  it.  I  depict  the  future  as  I  think  it  will 
be — as  far  as  I  can  see  it.  But  I  am  conscious  of 
the  limitations  of  my  imagination,  and  although 
I  am  ready  to  admit  that  my  pictures  of  futurity 
may  be  totally  at  fault,  the  changes  I  predict 
are  probably  not  so  startling  as  the  changes 
that  will  gradually  occur  in  the  course  of  two 
hundred  years. 

"  Briefly,  my  work  is  an  attempt  to  take  men 
and  women  as  they  are  and  infer  what  may 
happen  to  them  in  the  course  of  a  few  generations. 
That  is  what  I  want  to  know.  I  have  my  own 
views  on  the  subject.  For  instance,  I  am 
convinced  that  the  improvement  in  agricultural 
machinery  will  render  labour  in  the  country  less 


52  H.   G.   WELLS 

necessary  than  it  is  at  present,  and  that  the 
population  of  our  villages  will  decline  to  the 
vanishing  point.  The  few  big  towns  will  grow 
very  big  indeed,  and  in  those  towns  will  be 
concentrated  everything  that  is  best — the  best 
doctors,  the  best  preachers,  the  best  cooking — so 
that  people  will  be  afraid  to  live  in  the  small  towns 
for  fear  of  missing  the  conveniences  and  luxuries 
of  the  monster  cities. 

"  Even  labourers  will  reside  in  London.  They 
will  go  out  to  their  several  occupations  by 
means  of  swift  motors.  I  can  imagine  motors 
rattling  along  at  200  miles  an  hour,  a  speed 
sufficient  to  allow  of  men  leaving  London  in  the 
morning  to  perform  a  day's  work  in  any  part 
of  the  country  and  returning  home  to  sleep 
in  the  evening. 

"  With  the  advent  of  machines  capable  of 
travelling  hundreds  of  miles  an  hour  all  our 
roads  will  have  to  be  altered.  Towns  that  are 
now  important  will  disappear  and  bits  of  villages 
that  are  not  easy  of  access  in  these  days  will 
become  the  most  convenient  places  in  the  world. 

"  There  is  already  a  tendency  for  buildings 
to  extend  higher,  and  with  lofty  erections  we 
shall  have  covered  streets.  I  shouldn't  be 
surprised  at  any  moment  to  hear  that  it  is  pro- 
posed to  cover  in  a  thoroughfare  in  Paris,  London, 
or  somewhere.  Then  again,  mechanically-moving 
roadways  are  bound  to  come.  They  are  laying 
one  down  in  Paris  for  the  exhibition,  and  there 
wasone  at  the  Chicago  Exhibition  some  years  ago." 


CHAPTER  III 

PARADOX  AND  THE  ABNORMAL  MIND 

WELLS  has  one  great  hold  on  the  British  public, 
and  that  is  his  detachment  from  any  paradoxical 
inclinations  in  his  writings.  Now  if  there  is 
one  thing  the  man  in  the  street  will  not  accept 
it  is  the  paradox.  The  English  mind  is  filled 
with  sheer  madness  when  anyone  puts  a  paradox 
before  it.  Curiously  enough  Wells  keeps  all  his 
paradox  in  his  own  life — and  is  serious — some- 
times terribly  serious — in  his  books.  This  fact 
alone  is  enough  to  reveal  the  fact  that  he  belongs 
to  the  English  lower  middle  class,  and  is  very 
nearly  an  average  man,  abnormal  only  by  reason 
of  his  astonishing  mental  vigour.  He  is  too 
unrestrained,  too  English,  too  cordial  for  the 
paradox,  and  to  him  the  attitude  of  such  a 
writer  as  Oscar  Wilde  is  exasperating.  And 
yet  there  is  often  just  as  full  a  measure  of  sanity 
in  Wilde's  paradoxes  as  one  can  find  in  a  Wells 
novel.  All  Mr.  Britling's  contemplations  on  the 
bettering  of  life  and  putting  an  end  to  all  that 
causes  war  takes  us  no  nearer  the  secret  of  world 
peace  than  Wilde  has  taken  us  in  his  witty 
demonstration  of  the  insufficiency  of  the  emotions 
as  aids  to  culture-progress.  From  the  intellect 
alone,  he  says,  and  truly,  too,  can  the  great 


54  H.   G.   WELLS 

republic  of  the  United  States  of  the  World  come  : 
"  As  long  as  war  is  regarded  as  wicked,  it  will 
always  have  its  fascination.  When  it  is  looked 
upon  as  vulgar,  it  will  cease  to  be  popular. 
The  change  will,  of  course,  be  slow,  and  people 
will  not  be  conscious  of  it.  They  will  not  say 
4  We  will  not  war  against  France  because  her 
prose  is  perfect,'  but  because  the  prose  of  France 
is  perfect  they  will  not  hate  the  land.  Intellectual 
criticism  will  bind  Europe  together  in  bonds  far 
closer  than  those  that  can  be  forged  by  shopman 
or  sentimentalist.  It  will  give  us  the  peace 
that  springs  from  understanding." 

There  is  usually  something  strange  and 
unusual  about  the  writer  with  a  taste  for 
ingenious  inversions.  You  guess  at  once  that 
the  man  who  fights  with  contradictions  walks 
on  the  left  side  of  the  sun,  and,  moreover,  that 
he  is  a  man  whom  influences  other  than  those 
natural  to  his  native  heath  have  helped  to 
fashion.  Take  one  or  two  of  our  most  brilliant 
paradoxical  writers  and  I  think  we  shall  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  the  cosmopolitan  influence 
has  been  stronger,  and  that  their  temper  and 
point  of  view  is  not  entirely  English.  Directly 
you  read  Hilaire  Belloc  you  realize  that  he  has 
steeped  himself  in  the  Gallic  spirit.  His  power 
with  the  paradox  brands  him  as  a  man  to  whom 
nature  has  paid  the  compliment  of  framing 
different  from  his  fellows.  The  English  mind 
would  assert  that  he  is  colour-blind  and  keep 


THE   ABNORMAL  MIND  55 

him  out  of  signal  boxes  on  the  railway,  but  in 
reality  he  is  a  refreshing  specimen  of  sturdy 
individuality  among  a  race  of  mere  types. 

If  Wells  ever  achieves  a  paradox  he  will  not 
leave  it  alone.  He  always  wants  to  talk  it  out 
— to  arm  himself  and  defend  and  amplify.  Not 
so  Belloc.  He  is  almost  secretive  and  tries 
to  slip  past  your  guard  with  his  inversions 
without  being  detected.  In  his  introduction 
to  Froude's  essays,  for  example,  he  has 
written  : 

"  Why  then  do  I  say  that  he  was  perpetually 
on  the  borderland  of  the  Catholic  Church  ? 
Because  when  we  leave  for  a  moment  the  phrase- 
ology and  the  material  of  his  youth  and  of  his 
neighbourhood,  he  is  perpetually  striking  that 
note  of  interest,  of  wonder,  and  of  intellectual 
freedom  which  is  the  note  of  Catholicism." 

We  ordinary  beings  can  see  the  Catholic 
Church  in  three  dimensions  only  ;  but  Belloc 
uses  the  paradox  to  show  us  the  fourth  dimension. 
He  does  not  argle-bargle  about  it.  There  is  no 
interpretation.  The  die  is  cut — and  left.  Belloc 
pretends  not  to  notice  how  appalling  the 
assertion  that  "  intellectual  freedom  is  the 
note  of  the  Catholic  Church "  must  seem  to 
Wells,  or  any  ordinary  Englishmen.  Or  again, 
Belloc  speaks  of  a  man  who  reminded  him  of 
"  one  of  the  great  Huguenots  whom  France  to 
her  eternal  loss  banished  by  the  revocation  of 
the  Edict  of  Nantes,  and  of  whom  a  bare  twenty 


56  H.   G.   WELLS 

thousand  are  now  to  be  found  in  the  town  of 
Nimes." 

No  one  has  given  more  paradoxes  to  our 
literature  than  Oscar  Wilde,  and  no  one  was 
more  detached  from  other  men,  which  rather 
suggests  that  paradox  is  simply  the  truth  of 
the  abnormal  mind.  To  Oscar  Wilde  the  art 
of  Wells  would  have  seemed  no  art  at  all.  Wells, 
he  would  have  argued,  "  is  natural,  and  to  be 
natural  is  to  be  obvious,  and  to  be  obvious  is 
to  be  inartistic."  Wilde  was  simply  an  artist 
in  search  of  things  removed  from  the  actual  life 
of  men.  The  multitude  disturbed  the  very 
air  he  breathed.  Wells  loves  the  multitude  and 
is  the  superman  of  the  market  place.  He 
writes  with  a  swaggering  enthusiasm.  Wilde 
wrote  with  an  intensely  subtle  perverseness. 
He  could  give  to  common  things  a  quality  that 
made  them  seem  sinister,  and  place  them  in 
worlds  that  never  existed.  Here  are  some 
examples  of  his  unique  method  of  literary 
inversion :  "  Art  is  greater  than  life,  and 
criticism  greater  than  art ;  there  is  no  sin  except 
stupidity ;  thought  is  dangerous ;  the  three 
qualifications  of  a  great  critic  are  unfairness, 
insincerity,  and  irrationality  ;  it  is  easier  to  do 
a  thing  than  to  write  about  it ;  life  is  a  failure 
from  the  artistic  point  of  view  ;  in  the  sphere 
of  action  a  conscious  aim  is  a  delusion,  and  worse 
than  a  delusion  ;  sin  is  an  essential  element  of 
progress ;  all  bad  art  comes  from  returning 


THE   ABNORMAL  MIND  57 

to  life  and  nature,  and  elevating  them  into 
ideals ;  external  nature  imitates  art ;  the 
remarkable  increase  in  London  fogs  during  the 
last  ten  years  is  entirely  due  to  the  impressionist 
painters  ;  the  sunsets  are  beginning  to  imitate 
Turner's  pictures  ;  lying,  the  telling  of  beautiful 
untrue  things,  is  the  proper  aim  of  art ;  the 
Japanese  people  do  not  exist ;  nature  is  always 
behind  the  age  ;  art  is  our  gallant  attempt  to 
teach  nature  her  proper  place." 

Like  Belloc  and  Wilde,  George  Bernard  Shaw 
is  nimble  with  the  paradox,  but  there  the 
resemblance  ends.  It  must  be  insisted  that 
it  is  about  his  message  and  not  his  humour  that 
Shaw  is  serious.  He  spends  his  life  in  being 
sportive  in  order  that  he  may  not  become 
shallow.  He  is  not  a  literary  man  who  takes 
occasional  excursions  into  the  realms  of  politics 
and  morals  as  Wells  is.  He  is  wholly  a  political 
and  moral  reformer.  "  I  would  not  have  been 
at  the  trouble  of  writing  a  single  word  for  art's 
sake,"  he  has  himself  informed  us.  Even  his 
jokes  are  of  a  special  pattern  and  for  their  full 
enjoyment  demand  a  complete  sympathy  with 
his  sociological  essays  and  plays.  It  is  this 
that  distinguishes  Shaw  from  Wells — that  his 
humour  is  produced  by  the  profound  earnestness 
of  his  belief.  Shaw  does  not  make  "  jokes  "  in 
order  to  entertain  us  ;  in  fact  he  is  a  joyless 
ascetic  at  heart  and  his  puritanical  outlook  has 
entirely  dispelled  any  hereditary  sense  of  Irish 


58  H.   G.    WELLS 

humour.  Life  force  has  a  curious  way  of  turning 
all  Shaw's  serious  thoughts  into  jokes,  and  yet 
there  is  no  man  in  England  with  a  more  gloomy 
way  of  life.  He  has  no  sympathy  with  joy.  The 
most  superficial  form  of  sympathy,  as  Wilde  has 
said,  is  sympathy  with  suffering :  the  higher 
form  of  sympathy  with  others'  joys  is  infinitely 
harder  to  attain  to.  And  it  is  easier  to  sympathise 
with  pain,  he  says,  than  to  sympathise  with 
thought.  The  dreary  history  of  human  per- 
secution would  not  be  such  sad  reading  if  men 
had  unlearned  a  little  of  the  art  of  sacrifice  and 
learned  something  of  the  ethic  of  joy. 

"  All  sympathy  is  fine,  but  sympathy  with 
suffering  is  the  least  fine  mode.  It  is  tainted 
with  egotism.  It  is  apt  to  become  morbid. 
There  is  in  it  a  certain  element  of  terror  for  our 
own  safety.  We  become  afraid  that  we  our- 
selves might  be  as  the  leper  or  as  the  blind,  and 
that  no  man  would  have  care  of  us.  It  is 
curiously  limiting  too.  One  should  sympathise 
with  the  entirety  of  life,  not  with  life's  sores  and 
maladies  merely,  but  with  life's  joy  and  beauty 
and  energy  and  health  and  freedom.  The  wider 
sympathy  is,  of  course,  the  more  difficult.  It 

requires  more  unselfishness It  must 

be  remembered  that  while  sympathy  with  joy 
intensifies  the  sum  of  joy  in  the  world,  sympathy 
with  pain  does  not  really  diminish  the  amount 
of  pain.  It  may  make  man  better  able  to 
endure  evil,  but  the  evil  remains.  Sympathy 


THE   ABNORMAL   MIND  59 

with  consumption  does  not  cure  consumption, 
that  is  what  science  does.  And  when  Socialism 
has  solved  the  problem  of  poverty,  and  science 
solved  the  problem  of  disease,  the  area  of  the 
sentimentalists  will  be  lessened,  and  the  sympathy 
of  men  will  be  large,  healthy  and  spontaneous. 
Man  will  have  joy  in  the  contemplation  of  the 
joyous  lives  of  others." 


CHAPTER   IV 

THE  GOAL  OF  FAITH 

IN  1917  Wells  was  struggling  with  many  new 
ideas  of  a  World  State,  a  Kingdom  of  Heaven  on 
earth,  and  was  travelling  to  a  conviction  that 
the  goal  of  faith  was  the  only  thing  worth 
fighting  for.  Like  all  poets  and  scientists  he 
was  urged  forward  to  a  belief  in  some  sort  of  God 
by  an  unfailing  vehemence  of  emotion  which 
will  not  allow  any  mind  of  original  power  to  rest. 
But  his  mind  had  many  vacillations  before  he 
arrived  at  the  idea  of  God  the  Invisible  King 
— a  finite  God  and  "  a  single  spirit  and  single 
person."  In  "  War  and  the  Future,"  which 
was  the  forerunner  of  "  God  the  Invisible  King," 
he  seemed  a  man  with  a  divided  mind.  In  moods 
of  depression  and  impatience  he  could  scarcely 
see  a  measurable  step  made  towards  the  world 
Kingdom  of  God  "  which  is  the  manifest  solution, 
the  only  formula  that  can  bring  peace  to  all 
mankind." 

At  the  end  of  two  years'  war  he  thought  man- 
kind might  have  been  expected  to  make  a 
reconsideration  of  almost  every  outlook  and 
proposition  of  life.  It  was  a  great  chance  to  win 
back  that  youth  which  the  world  had  lost.  But 
the  world  seemed  to  wag  on  with  utter  unconcern  : 


60 


THE  GOAL  OF  FAITH  61 

"  I  see  a  multitude  of  little  chaps  crawling 
about  their  private  ends  like  mites  in  an  old 
cheese.  The  kings  are  still  in  their  places,  not  a 
royal  prince  has  been  killed  in  this  otherwise 
universal  slaughter  ;  when  the  fatuous  portraits 
of  the  monarchs  flash  upon  the  screen  the  widows 
and  orphans  still  break  into  loyal  song.  The 
ten  thousand  religions  of  mankind  are  still  ten 
thousand  religions,  all  busy  at  keeping  men  apart 
and  hostile." 

Is  the  wrangling  of  ten  thousand  religions  the 
great  evil  of  our  civilization  ?  Can  the  world 
win  back  the  youth  that  it  has  lost  through  an 
Invisible  King  ?  And  shall  we  come  "  struggling 
through  into  the  golden  light  of  His  Kingdom, 
to  fight  for  His  Kingdom  henceforth  until  we 
are  altogether  taken  up  into  His  being  ?  "  Neither 
Wells  nor  anyone  else  can  answer  that  question. 
But  this  thing  at  least  he  has  preached  to  our 
generation  :  that  there  is  no  way  to  the  Kingdom 
of  God  but  the  way  of  an  ancient  simplicity. 
It  is  for  the  sake  of  "  faith  "  that  we  must  revolt ; 
it  is  for  the  sake  of  simple  things  that  we  must 
destroy  ;  it  is  for  the  sake  of  primal  things  that 
we  must  make  all  things  new.  It  is  by  faith 
that  we  find  God  ;  but  Wells  "  doubts  if  faith 
can  be  complete  and  enduring  if  it  is  not  secured 
by  the  definite  knowledge  of  the  true  God." 

He  is  most  emphatic  on  the  point  that  the 
Invisible  King  is  a  finite  and  possibly  a  heavily 
handicapped  God.  Placing  himself  behind 


62  H.   G.   WELLS 

the  mask  of  Mr.  Britling  he  hints  that  we  all  have 
very  extravagant  ideas  about  God  : 

'  They  have  had  silly  absolute  ideas — that 
he  is  all  powerful.  That  he's  omni-everything. 
But  the  common  sense  of  men  knows  better. 
Every  real  religious  thought  denies  it.  After 
all,  the  real  God  of  the  Christians  is  Christ,  not 
God  Almighty  ;  a  poor  mocked  and  wounded 
God  nailed  on  a  cross  of  matter.  .  .  .  Some 
day  he  will  triumph.  But  it  is  not  fair  to  say  that 
he  causes  all  things  now.  It  is  not  fair  to  make 
out  a  case  against  him.  You  have  been  misled. 
It  is  a  theologian's  folly.  God  is  not  absolute ; 
God  is  finite.  ...  A  finite  God  who 
struggles  in  his  great  and  comprehensive  way 
as  we  struggle  in  our  weak  and  silly  way — who 
is  with  us — that  is  the  essence  of  all  real  religion. 
.  .  .  ,  Why !  if  I  thought  there  was  an 
omnipotent  God  who  looked  down  on  battles 
and  deaths  and  all  the  waste  and  horror  of  this 
war — able  to  prevent  these  things — doing  them 
to  amuse  himself — I  would  spit  in  his  empty 
face.  .  ." 

He  rebels  against  the  idea  that  God  owns  all 
nature,  which  I  think  a  very  noteworthy  point. 
His  God  is  "a  strongly  marked  and  knowable 
personality "  with  things  outside  him  and 
beyond  him.  He  is  limited  and  defined  and  almost 
human  like  ourselves,  and  is  within  nature  and 
necessity.  "  Necessity,"  says  Mr.  Britling, 
"  is  a  thing  beyond  God — beyond  good  and  ill, 


THE   GOAL   OF   FAITH  63 

beyond  space  and  time,  a  mystery  everlastingly 
impenetrable.  God  is  nearer  than  that. 
Necessity  is  the  uttermost  thing,  but  God  is  the 
innermost  thing.  Closer  is  he  than  breathing 
and  nearer  than  hands  and  feet.  He  is  the  Other 
Thing  than  this  world.  Greater  than  Nature  or 
Necessity,  for  he  is  a  spirit  and  they  are  blind, 
but  not  controlling  them  .  .  .  Not  yet  .  ." 

To  the  reader's  question,  "Are  not  the  waves, 
winds  and  mountains  God's  own  things  ?  " 
Wells  would  reply  that  God  does  not  command 
these  things  but  only  moves  with  them.  He  is 
the  spirit  that  strides  with  time- — "  somewhere 
in  the  dawning  of  mankind  he  had  a  beginning, 
an  awakening,  and  as  mankind  grows  he  grows 
.  He  is  the  undying  human  memory, 
the  increasing  human  will."  It  is  rather  curious 
that  he  should  first  suggest  that  God  is  "  a 
person,  a  strongly  marked  and  knowable 
personality,"  and  "  a  single  person  and  a  single 
spirit,"  yet  in  the  same  breath  claim  that  he  is 
the  authentic  abstraction  of  all  that  is  noble  in 
human  nature,  which  is  dangerously  near  to  the 
"  stream  of  tendency "  of  the  opponents  of 
modern  religion. 

At  all  events  his  God  is  in  distinct  opposition 
to  the  pantheism  of  such  modern  poetry  as 
Thomson's  "  Hymn  on  the  Seasons  "  : 

These  as  they  change,  Almighty  Father,  these 
Are  but  the  varied  God.     The  rolling  year 
Is  full  of  Thee.     Forth  in  the  pleasing  Spring 
Thy  beauty  walks,  Thy  tenderness  and  love     .     . 


64  H.   G.   WELLS 

Then  comes  Thy  glory  in  the  Summer  months 
With  light  and  heat  refulgent.     Then  Thy  sun 
Shoots  full  perfection  through  the  swelling  year  : 
And  oft  at  dawn,  deep  noon,  or  falling  eve, 
By  brooks  and  groves,  in  hollow-whispering  gales, 
Thy  bounty  shines  in  Autumn  unconfined, 
And  spreads  a  common  feast  for  all  that  lives. 
In  Winter  awful  Thou  !     With  clouds  and  storms 
Around  Thee  thrown,  tempest  o'er  tempest  rolled, 
Majestic  darkness  !     On  the  whirlwind's  wing 
Riding  sublime  Thou  bid'st  the  world  adore. 

Pantheism  has  certainly  no  part  in  the  Wellsian 
creed,  and  yet  it  has  claimed  the  minds  of  so  many 
of  our  poets  and  writers.  Shelley,  the  narrow  and 
hasty  sceptic,  seeing  in  his  conception  of  a  world 
of  purposeless  forces  no  divine,  creative  spirit  to 
worship,  turned  in  moods  of  deep  feeling  to  some 
turbulent  object  in  nature  and  "  troubled  the 
gold  gateways  of  the  stars  "  with  strange  hymns. 
We  think  instinctively  of  that  exquisite  and  bar- 
baric "  Ode  to  the  West  Wind  "  : 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear  ; 

If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee  ; 

A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  thou,  O  uncontrollable  !     If  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  heaven, 

As  thou,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skiey  speed 

Scarce  seem'd  a  vision  ;   I  would  ne'er  have  striven 

As  thou  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 
Oh  !  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud  ! 
I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life  !     I  bleed  ! 

The  ambition  of  the  Invisible  King  is  the 
coming  of  the  Kingdom  of  God  on  earth — Wells's 
World  State — "  a  group  of  republican  cantons 
after  the  Swiss  pattern.  I  can  see  no  other  solu- 


THE   GOAL   OF   FAITH  65 

tion  that  is  not  offensive  to  God.  It  does  not 
matter  in  the  least  what  we  owe  to  Serbia  or  what 
we  owe  to  Italy.  We  have  got  to  set  this  world 
on  a  different  footing.  We  have  got  to  set  up 
the  world  at  last — on  justice  and  reason." 

In  "  A  Modern  Utopia  "  he  tells  us  that  the 
Utopian  religion  resists  the  idea  of  original  sin 
and  upholds  the  idea  that  on  the  whole  man  is 
good.  He  still  feels  vividly  the  truth  of  this, 
though  there  were  times  during  the  great  war — 
"  a  demonstration  in  vast  and  tragic  forms  of  the 
stupidity  and  ineffectiveness  of  our  species " 
when  he  felt  things  were  pressing  down  on  him 
and  that  his  hopeful  view  of  the  world  was 
"  like  repeating  a  worn-out  prayer."  But  once 
he  had  really  experienced  the  environment  of  the 
Master  he  recovered  at  once.  To  continue  the 
exploration  of  Wells  through  Mr.  Britling,  we  may 
make  a  guess  that  it  was  during  some  of  his 
journalistic  vigils  at  his  Essex  home  during  the 
war,  that  he  surrendered  himself  to  the  feeling 
that  he  needed  a  God  who  was  not  an  abstraction 
nor  a  trick  of  words — but  a  "  God  of  the  Human 
Heart  as  real  as  a  bayonet  thrust  or  an  embrace." 

It  was  a  terrible  time  for  all  of  us  and  there 
were  few  who  were  not  stirred  to  new  depths 
of  religious  thought.  It  seemed  only  too  plain 
that  all  our  boasted  proficiency  in  science  had 
only  ended  in  the  worship  of  the  great  Juggernaut, 
armed  power.  When  Kipling  went  up  into  the 
sky  like  a  rocket  in  1891  he  proclaimed  the 


66  H.   G.   WELLS 

beginning  of  this  decade  of  delirium.  We 
cannot  get  the  picture  out  of  our  mind !  The 
banjo-bard  marching  ahead  of  the  throng  of 
Barney  Barnatos  and  Whitaker  Wrights,  shouting 
his  songs  of  "  hot  sand  and  ginger,"  telling  his 
tales  of  creatures  that  once  were  men,  slobbering 
over  the  low  soul  redeemed  by  the  call  of  Empire, 
proclaiming  the  worship  of  emperors  and 
adventurers  and  forestallers  who  in  the  end 
have  betrayed  mankind  into  a  "  morass  of  hate 
and  blood — in  which  our  sons  are  lost — in  which 
we  flounder  still." 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that  the  swift  and 
overwhelming  tide  of  disaster  during  the  war 
urged  Wells  towards  a  realisation  of  the  Kingdom 
of  the  Invisible  King — an  idea  which  had  been 
fertilizing  in  his  brain  for  some  time. 

The  conclusion  arrived  at  in  "  God  the 
Invisible  King "  is  that  personal  immortality 
is  not  to  be  anticipated,  and  if  he  does  not  reject 
the  idea  entirely,  he  ignores  it.  The  first  purpose 
of  the  Invisible  King  is  to  aid  the  believer  to  suffer 
the  annihilation  of  his  individual  consciousness 
with  perfect  calm  and  understanding,  so  that 
when  death  approaches  his  thoughts  will  be  so 
intimately  merged  in  the  will  of  the  Invisible 
King  that  his  oneness  with  all  things  will  take 
the  sting  from  death  itself.  Wells  elaborates 
this  idea  in  a  very  alert  passage.  "  God  who 
captains  us  but  does  not  coddle  us,"  he  writes, 
"  will  by  no  means  undertake  to  hold  the 


THE  GOAL   OF  FAITH  67 

believer  scathless  among  the  pitfalls  and  perils 
that  beset  our  earthly  pilgrimage.  But  God  will 
be  with  you,  nevertheless,  in  the  reeling  aeroplane, 
or  the  dark  ice-cave ;  God  will  be  your  courage. 
Though  you  suffer  or  are  killed,  it  is  not  an  end. 
He  will  be  with  you  as  you  face  death ;  he  will 
die  with  you  as  he  has  died  already  countless 
myriads  of  brave  deaths.  He  will  come  so  close 
to  you  that  at  the  last  you  will  not  know  whether 
it  is  you  or  he  who  dies,  and  the  present  death 
will  be  swallowed  up  in  his  victory." 

The  Invisible  King  does  not  profess  to  entice 
children,  and  as  a  matter  of  fact,  Wells  tells  us 
that  children  have  no  natural  love  for  God  and 
no  need  of  him.  However,  He  is  always  near  at 
hand,  and  if  we  are  to  form  a  picture  of  him 
from  Wells' s  conception  we  can  only  think  of  a 
brisk  sun-bronzed  man  riding  a  powerful  horse — 
a  genial,  enlivening  visitor  who  taps  on  the  door 
with  his  riding  crop  and  inquires  "  Is  everything 
all  right  ?  "  And  when  the  children  question 
about  the  stranger  who  sometimes  calls  they 
must  be  told  that  he  is  a  very  old  friend  whom 
some  day  they  will  need  and  know. 

Frankly  the  Invisible  King  is  not  a  mild  and 
tender  God,  but  a  militant  and  gloriously 
adventurous  God — he  is  a  great  ocean  of  fine 
feeling,  and  once  the  seeker  finds  him  life  becomes 
a  splendid  struggle  to  outwit  mental  lethargy — 
the  unnecessary,  gluttonous  sleep,  the  mind- 
sleep.  To  Wells  quietism  is  contrary  to  all  the 


68  H.    G.   WELLS 

laws  of  God  and  man.  The  finding  of  God  is  not 
a  soporific  which  kills  all  imagination,  "it  is  the 
release  of  life  and  action  from  the  prison  of  the 
mortal  self."  There  is  no  contentment  once  you 
have  found  God — for  contentment  does  not  breed 
progress.  The  whole  idea  of  God  is  hopeless  to 
him  if  the  idea  brings  inertia  and  a  natural- 
tinted  tired  feeling  of  safety. 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  SAVING  GRACE  OF  HUMOUR 

I  HAVE  put  Wells  alongside  George  Gissing  in 
another  part  of  this  book.  Gissing  was  a  master 
of  his  craft,  a  writer  imbued  with  the  true  spirit 
of  Greek  tragedy.  He  believed  that  evil,  suffering 
and  sin  were  things  which  were  not  to  be  eluded 
in  this  world.  He  had  no  faith  in  any  Utopia. 
Tragedy  seemed  to  him  at  once  the  only 
criticism  of  life  and  the  highest  plane  of  art. 
To  Wells,  vice,  distress,  poverty  are  the  sequence 
of  a  sluggish  and  senseless  manner  of  government. 
He  sees  no  reason  why  people  should  not  obtain 
supreme  happiness  both  here  on  earth  and  in 
Heaven.  Gissing  was  convinced  that  Heaven 
was  a  delusion.  But  it  must  be  remembered 
that  Gissing  lived  under  the  shadow  of  death. 
"Lung  trouble,"  he  wrote  in  1897,  "is  still 
hanging  over  me  ;  the  future  is  very  uncertain." 
And  again  he  speaks  of  "  three  months  of  weary 
idleness  dodging  the  east  winds,"  and  that  he 
is  "off  northwards  in  the  vain  hope  of  getting 
a  little  strength  for  next  winter."  Later,  in 
speaking  of  social  engagements  :  "  Society  is  a 
delight  and  a  refreshment  to  me,  but  I  am  a 
prisoner  nearly  all  my  time."  Again  on  a  post- 
card from  Catanzaro  a  touch  of  him  at  his  best : 


69 


70  H.   G.   WELLS 

"  Weather  wretched,  gales  and  rain,  tornadoes, 
wrecks,  but  the  Calabrian  wine  is  no  less  good." 

It  is  a  singular  thing  that  Gissing,  the  Apostle 
of  Pessimism,  was  one  of  the  brightest  of  com- 
panions. Morris  Corres  writes  :  "  His  laughter 
was  whole-hearted.  His  sensibility  was  reflected 
in  his  refined  face,  and  as  he  spoke  his  eyes  lighted 
up  with  a  rare  brilliancy,  giving  a  glimpse  of  a 
bright  and  beautiful  soul.  The  vulgar  and  the 
sordid  were  to  him  an  abomination,  and  in  the 
midst  of  his  greatest  necessities  he  would  never 
stoop  to  work  he  considered  unworthy,  or  to 
'  take  occasion  by  the  hand.' ' 

As  I  have  already  suggested,  Gissing's  attitude 
of  mind  fills  Wells  with  dismay.  He  has  no  use 
for  the  drooping  heart  in  literature.  He,  like 
nearly  all  his  characters,  rebels  against  circum- 
stance, and  generally  makes  good.  Like  Mr. 
Polly  and  Mr.  Hoopdriver  he  is  a  poet  and  a 
romancer,  and  is  full  of  jolly  joy  and  the  bright 
visions  of  youth.  I  quote  from  "  The  Wheels  of 
Chance  "  : 

"  Mr.  Hoopdriver  was  (in  the  days  of  this 
story)  a  poet,  though  he  had  never  written  a 
line  of  verse.  Or  perhaps  romancer  will  describe 
him  better.  Like  I  know  not  how  many  of  those 
who  do  the  fetching  and  carrying  of  life — a  great 
number  of  them  certainly — his  real  life  was 
absolutely  uninteresting,  and  if  he  had  faced 
it  as  realistically  as  such  people  do  in  Mr.  Gissing's 
novels,  he  would  probably  have  come  by  way  of 


THE  SAVING  GRACE  71 

drink  to  suicide  in  the  course  of  a  year.  But 
that  was  just  what  he  had  the  natural  wisdom 
not  to  do.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  always 
decorating  his  existence  with  imaginative  tags, 
hopes  and  poses,  deliberate  and  yet  quite 
effectual  self-deceptions ;  his  experiences  were 
mere  material  for  a  romantic  superstructure. 
If  some  power  had  given  Hoopdriver  the 
*  giftie '  Burns  invoked,  '  to  see  oursels  as 
ithers  see  us,'  he  would  probably  have  given 
it  away  to  some  one  else  at  the  very  earliest 
opportunity." 

Among  lively  writers  he  stands  securely  in 
the  first  place.  His  work  is  always  constructive, 
his  message  one  of  courage  and  good  cheer.  His 
sprightly  humour  has  a  hundred  distinct  moods 
and  degrees.  Take,  for  instance,  the  whimsical 
wave  of  humour  throughout  the  chapter  "  Mr. 
Chaffery  at  Home,"  in  "  Love  and  Mr.  Lewisham." 
There  are  some  most  telling  arguments  in  favour 
of  a  more  generous  and  sunny  outlook  on  life  here, 
and  every  line  is  put  forth  with  a  jest  and  a  shout 
of  joy  and  a  dash  of  naweU.  Chaffery,  the  out- 
standing figure  in  this  chapter,  is  a  fraudulent 
and  deliciously  plausible  fellow  who  is  earning 
his  living  by  practising  deceptions  on  credulous 
spiritualists.  However,  he  is  not  at  all  confused 
by  any  feeling  of  wrong  in  the  way  he  employs 
his  roguery  as  a  means  of  existence,  and  pro- 
ceeds to  argue  that  his  position  as  an  impostor 
forms  one  of  the  bed-rocks  of  our  present-day 


72  H.   G.   WELLS 

society.  Chaff ery  especially  emphasizes  the  fact 
that  there  cannot  be  two  or  more  different  kinds 
and  grades  of  lies.  There  is  but  one  "  lie  "  and 
everything  in  the  world  is  part  and  parcel  of  it : 
"  But  about  this  matter  of  lies — let  us  look 
at  the  fabric  of  society,  let  us  compare  the 
savage.  You  will  discover  the  only  essential 
difference  between  savage  and  civilised  is  this  : 
The  former  hasn't  learnt  to  shirk  the  truth  of 
things,  and  the  latter  has.  Take  the  most  obvious 
difference — the  clothing  of  the  civilised  man, 
his  invention  of  decency.  What  is  clothing  ? 
The  concealment  of  essential  facts.  What  is 
decorum  ?  Suppression  !  I  don't  argue  against 
decency  and  decorum,  mind  you,  but  there  they 
are — essentials  to  civilisation  and  essentially 
suppressio  veri.  And  in  the  pockets  of  his 
clothes  our  citizen  carries  money.  The  pure 
savage  has  no  money.  To  him  a  lump  of  metal 
is  a  lump  of  metal — possibly  ornamental — no 
more.  That's  right.  To  any  lucid-minded  man 
it's  the  same  or  different  only  through  the  gross 
folly  of  his  fellows.  But  to  the  common  civilised 
man  the  universal  exchangeability  of  this  gold 
is  a  sacred  and  fundamental  fact.  Think  of  it ! 
Why  should  it  be  ?  There  isn't  a  why  !  I  live 
in  perpetual  amazement  at  the  gullibility  of  my 
fellow-creatures.  Of  a  morning  sometimes,  I 
can  assure  you,  I  lie  in  bed  fancying  that  people 
may  have  found  out  this  swindle  in  the  night, 
expect  to  hear  a  tumult  downstairs  and  see  your 


THE   SAVING   GRACE  73 

mother-in-law  come  rushing  into  the  room  with 
a  rejected  shilling  from  the  milkman.  '  What's 
this  ?  '  says  he.  '  This  muck  for  milk  ?  '  But 
it  never  happens.  Never.  If  it  did,  if  people 
suddenly  cleared  their  minds  of  this  cant  of 
money,  what  would  happen  ?  The  true  nature 
of  man  would  appear.  I  should  whip  out  of  bed, 
seize  some  weapon,  and  after  the  milkman  forth- 
with. It's  becoming  to  keep  the  peace,  but  it's 
necessary  to  have  milk." 

All  this  has  of  course  been  expressed  before 
by  men  quite  as  great  as  Chaffery  (or  Wells). 
But  the  one  supreme  and  important  fact  is  this  : 
Wells  through  this  veil  of  intellectual  fooling  is 
voicing  deeper  meanings  to  audiences  who  through 
their  transits  behold  that  fixed  ideas  and  con- 
ventions, like  fixed  stars,  are  very  much  in 
motion. 

The  man  who  is  always  proclaiming  that  he 
is  in  the  right  is  intolerable — especially  when  he 
is  a  Dissenter.  So  says  Chaffery.  And  we  must 
admire  this  man  for  one  thing — if  he  lives  by 
telling  other  people  lies  he  makes  it  a  rule  never 
to  lie  to  himself.  After  all  few  people  can  say 
that.  He  makes  this  point  clear  and  goes  on  to 
elaborate  the  idea :  "  To  my  mind — truth 
begins  at  home.  And  for  the  most  part — stops 
there.  Safest  and  seemliest !  you  know.  With 
most  men — with  your  typical  Dissenter  par 
excellence — it's  always  gadding  abroad,  calling 
on  the  neighbours.  You  see  my  point  of  view  ?  " 


74  H.   G.   WELLS 

In  "  The  History  of  Mr.  Polly  "  we  encounter 
Wells  in  his  most  sportive  moods.  The  eternal 
boyishness  of  Mr.  Polly  is  allied  to  a  mellow 
and  profound  sense  of  humour  which  is  quite 
as  subtle  as  the  Dickens  touch. 

Humour  is  the  solution  of  life  ;  humour  is  life  ; 
humour  daily  makes  it  possible  to  go  on.  That 
lively  perception  of  the  ludicrous,  which  we  all 
possess  in  greater  or  smaller  measure,  has  been 
very  rightly  called  the  saving  sense  of  humour. 
It  saves  our  souls  alive.  It  saves  our  hearts  from 
breaking.  It  saves  us  from  drowning  when  we 
take  a  dive  into  a  sea  of  sermons.  It  saves  us 
from  all  manner  of  folly  and  wickedness  and 
sorrow  and  despair. 

Humour  saved  Mr.  Polly.  It  helped  him  to 
resist  severe  attacks  of  indigestion,  for  no  man 
can  tackle  "  cold  potatoes  and  RashdalPs  Mixed 
Pickles  "  for  supper  unless  he  is  prepared  to  out- 
law the  demons  of  dyspepsia  with  great  gusts  of 
laughter. 

In  the  matter  of  humour,  Mr.  Polly  is  a  greater 
man  than  Napoleon,  who  in  spite  of  being  a 
king  of  generals  was  a  pauper  in  humour. 
Napoleon's  pride  was  colossal,  and  the  fact  that 
it  was  in  no  wise  balanced  by  any  idea  of  humour 
must  have  made  him  a  sore  trial  to  his  staff — 
we  know  that  it  made  him  a  sore  trial  to  the  world. 
This  type  of  man  is  never  common-place — he 
is  the  victim  of  a  divine  prank.  Being  blessed 
or  cursed  with  high  ambition,  great  intellect, 


THE  SAVING  GRACE  75 

impelling  passion  and  self-reliance,  he  became  the 
victim  of  his  qualities.  The  tragedy  of  his  life 
lay  in  the  fact  that  unkind  fate  withheld  from  him 
the  saving  grace  of  humour. 

Mr.  Polly  is  as  truly  comic  as  some  of  the 
droll  characters  of  Charles  Dickens,  and,  unlike 
Dickens,  his  creator  does  not  put  all  his  humour 
in  his  books,  thus  leaving  none  over  for  his  private 
life.  One  only  need  glance  at  him  while  he  is 
talking  to  a  friend,  to  know  that  he  is  a  lover 
of  free,  reckless  laughter,  has  spirits  of  brimming 
humour  which  are  totally  independent  of  his 
literary  work.  Often  the  humour  sense  has 
nothing  to  do  with  a  man's  capacity  for  laughter, 
or  for  inciting  others  to  mirth.  It  is  certain  he 
can  never  be  counted  a  humorist  where  Dickens 
stands  supreme.  But  Mr.  Polly  is  Wells  in  the 
book,  and  Wells  is  Mr.  Polly  outside  the  book. 
This  cannot  be  said  of  Dickens  and  his  characters. 
Mr.  Edwin  Pugh  has  written  : 

"  I  dare  say  that  Dickens  has  caused  as  much 
mirth  as  any  other  author,  and  yet  his  sense  of 
humour  was  curiously  defective.  It  seems  to 
have  played  scarcely  any  part  in  his  private  life. 
Certainly,  it  did  not  save  him  from  taking 
himself  far  too  seriously  at  times,  or  from 
occasionally  making  himself  rather  absurd,  as 
a  fuller  sense  of  humour  would.  He  had  exuber- 
ant animal  spirits,  and  that  fondness  for  practical 
joking  and  buffoonery  which  one  usually 
associates  with  that  least  humorous  of  young 


76  H.   G.   WELLS 

animals,  the  schoolboy ;  but  he  had  not,  as 
Thackeray  had,  that  faculty  of  self-criticism  and 
self-restraint,  and  that  half-sad,  half-whimsical 
attitude  towards  life-in-the-large  which  betokens 
a  richer  and  profounder  sense  of  humour,  and 
which  is,  indeed,  more  rarely  found  in  the 
professional  funny  man  than  in  the  man  of  the 
world." 

It  is  essentially  because  Wells  is  not  a  profes- 
sional jester  of  the  same  school  as  Oscar  Wilde 
or  Whistler  that  his  humour  is  really  mellow  and 
genial.  To  read  Oscar  Wilde  one  would  never 
realise  that  men  still  gathered  round  the  fire  o' 
nights  with  tankards  of  ale,  rejoiced  in  beef  and 
pickles,  loved  their  mothers  and  wives,  engaged 
in  warm  and  friendly  banter,  indulged  in  kindly 
nonsense,  pursued  love  or  feared  death.  Wilde 
preferred  unkindly  wit  to  genial  humour, 
inhuman  skill  and  cunning  to  open-handed 
strength ;  and  compassion,  pathos  and  tender 
feelings  seemed  to  him  to  contain  the  tincture 
of  the  unfashionable  and  the  homely.  Against 
this  point  of  view,  however,  one  can  hear  the 
reader  quoting  from  "  Hamlet "  to  the  effect 
that  "  one  may  smile,  and  smile,  and  be  a  villain." 
And  that  may  be  quite  true. 

The  sole  purpose  of  Whistler's  wit  was  to 
wound  ;  and  he  tested  his  success  by  the  deepness 
of  the  wound.  This  kind  of  wit  is  alien  to  the 
Wellsian  style  of  humour  which  involves  neither 
the  malice  of  satire,  nor  the  horse  play  of 


THE   SAVING   GRACE  77 

burlesque,  nor  the  stab  of  ridicule.  True  humour 
is  infinitely  finer  than  the  knowing  witticisms  of 
Whistled — it  is  more  delicate  and  impersonal. 
So  we  must  arrive  at  the  conclusion  that  Wilde 
and  Whistler  were  merely  truculent  wags,  while 
Wells  is  something  much  greater — a  lover  of 
humour  and  laughter  for  the  reason  that  it 
teaches  us  our  own  shortcomings  as  well  as 
the  weaknesses  of  others. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  PETERPANTHEISM  OF  WELLS 

ENTHUSIASM  is  the  prevailing  characteristic  of 
the  child  and  the  man  of  genius,  and  when  one 
comes  to  think  the  matter  over  the  spontaneous 
energy  of  childhood  is  very  closely  connected, 
and  bears  a  striking  similarity  to  the  spontaneity 
of  genius.  The  eternal  man  is  usually  the 
eternal  youth.  One  of  the  first  things  one 
observes  in  Wells  is  his  spontaneity  and  eternal 
boyishness.  We  quickly  discover  the  impulsive- 
ness of  the  child  in  all  his  ways.  He  is  always 
in  a  childish  hurry,  and  his  work  is  overflowing 
with  the  whimsicalness  of  the  child.  His  youth- 
fulness  will  last  for  ever.  Like  his  great  creation, 
Mr.  Polly,  he  has  the  art  of  bringing  his  child- 
hood into  the  dreary  routine  of  manhood.  The 
reader  will  recall  how  the  Potwell  Inn  became 
gradually  overspread  with  Mr.  Polly's  skittish 
influence,  and  how  he  lavished  white  and  green 
paint  on  everything  with  the  unexpectedness 
of  a  child  : 

"  Even  the  garden  palings  were  striped  white 
and  green,  and  so  were  the  boats ;  for  Mr. 
Polly  was  one  of  those  who  find  a  positive 
sensuous  pleasure  in  the  laying  on  of  paint." 

Wells  is  another  Mr.  Polly  with  his  pots  of  paint, 


78 


PETERPANTHEISM  79 

and  he  has  come  splashing  and  flourishing  his 
brushes  into  the  gardens  of  ignorance  and 
superstition.  The  world  for  him  is  a  great  floor 
game,  a  monstrous,  absurd  muddle,  cloaking  in 
some  obscure  way  the  radiance  of  God,  who 
reveals  Himself  to  those  who  can  greet  each  day 
with  the  enthusiasm  and  breathless  wonder  of 
a  child. 

He  would  have  all  men  play  so  seriously  that 
a  new  saneness  should  come  into  their  days. 
In  his  book  of  games  for  boys,  "  Little  Wars," 
upon  which  he  has  described  himself  as  "  the 
author  of  4  Floor  Games '  and  several  minor 
and  inferior  works  "  he  has  very  artfully  hinted 
this  :  "  Great  War  is  at  present,  I  am  con- 
vinced, not  only  the  most  expensive  game  in  the 
universe,  but  it  is  a  game  out  of  all  proportion. 
Not  only  are  the  masses  of  men  and  material 
and  suffering  and  inconvenience  too  monstrously 
big  for  reason,  but — the  available  heads  we 
have  for  it  are  too  small.  That,  I  think,  is  the 
most  pacific  realisation  conceivable,  and  Little 
Wars  (the  Floor  Game)  brings  you  to  it  as  nothing 
else  but  Great  War  can  do."  In  another  part  of 
this  book  he  has  written :  "I  have  never  yet 
met  in  little  battle  any  military  gentlemen,  any 
captain,  major,  colonel,  general,  or  eminent 
commander,  who  did  not  presently  get  into 
difficulties  and  confusions  among  even  the 
elementary  rules  of  the  battle.  You  have  only  to 
play  at  Little  Wars  three  or  four  times  to  realize 


80  H.   G.   WELLS 

just  what  a  blundering  thing  Great  War  must 
be."  This  book  was  first  published  in  July, 
1913,  and  a  few  years  later  its  author's  deductions 
were  only  too  well  justified. 

He  is  very  serious  over  his  two  little  books  of 
games  of  the  wonderful  islands,  tin  murder, 
and  the  building  of  cities.  Play  is  the  thing, 
but  his  play  is  the  everlasting  play  of  the  victory 
of  common  sense  over  folly  :  "  Let  us  put  this 
prancing  monarch  and  that  silly  scaremonger, 
and  these  excitable  4  patriots,'  and  those 
adventurers,  and  all  the  practitioners  of  Welt 
Politik,  into  one  vast  Temple  of  War,  with  cork 
carpets  everywhere,  and  plenty  of  little  houses 
to  knock  down,  and  cities  and  fortresses,  and 
unlimited  soldiers  .  v  Y  i  .  and  let  them 
lead  their  own  lives.  .  ." 

It  seems  that  Wells  is  the  herald  of  Peter- 
pantheism  in  his  own  private  life,  and  the  great 
Charlie  Chaplin  has  told  us  something  of  his 
indefatigable  and  unconquerable  youthfulness. 
When  Chaplin  visited  him  he  had  much  excite- 
ment and  fun  playing  a  game  of  H.  G.  W.'s  own 
invention — a  combination  of  handball  and 
tennis.  The  author  also  played  charades,  mental 
guessing  games,  and  did  a  clog  dance—  "  and  did 
it  very  well  too,"  observed  Charlie.  He  also 
modestly  explained  to  Charlie  that  he  "  painted 
a  bit  "  —and  proudly  exhibited  a  fireplace  in  his 
study  decorated  by  his  paintings — fearful  and 


PETERPANTHEISM  81 

wonderful  colour  images  the  reader  will  imagine 
— but  on  this  point  we  are  not  enlightened. 

Much,  certainly  too  much,  has  been  written  of 
Stevenson's  eternal  boyishness.  Now  that  is  all 
wrong.  Stevenson  grew  up.  He  wrote  about 
pirates  and  "  good  yellow  pieces  of  eight  "  with 
a  kind  of  romantic  regret ;  and  the  poems  of 
childhood  which  he  fluted  on  his  little  tin  whistle 
were  not  written  for  children  by  a  child.  They 
were  written,  indeed,  by  a  man  in  the  grip  of 
dreary  routine  who  dared  for  a  few  moments 
to  look  back  upon  the  little  ghost  of  the  past. 
Stevenson  was  a  man  writing  for  boys  and 
yearning  to  lose  his  manhood  in  dreams  of  lost 
boyhood  ;  while  Wells  is  a  boy,  in  triumphant 
possession  of  his  kingdom,  writing  for  men. 
But  when  he  writes  for  children  he  becomes  a 
child  himself.  He  told  his  publisher  that  he 
hadn't  in  years  enjoyed  anything  so  much  as 
making  up  his  book  of  "  Floor  Games,"  and 
was  rather  disappointed  that  the  Press  did  not 
receive  it  as  cordially  as  it  had  received  his 
"  minor  "  works.  "  The  public  is  so  used  to 
your  more  serious  work  that  it  doesn't  under- 
stand when  you  go  in  for  this  foolery,"  remarked 
a  friend  to  him. 

"  Foolery  !  "  he  echoed.  "  Why,  man,  any 
fool  can  interest  the  average  man ;  but  to  write 
well  enough  to  interest  children  one  must  tower 
above  the  common  levels  of  humanity.  A  book 
that  will  amuse  children  is  a  big  thing: — a 

G 


82  H.   G.   WELLS 

wonderfully  big  thing.  Just  go  home  and  read 
a  page  or  two  of  '  Robinson  Crusoe  '  before  you 
dispute  me." 

In  "  God  the  Invisible  King  "  he  has  pointed 
out  that  God  is  the  buried  and  subconscious 
youthfulness  which  is  in  every  man's  heart. 
"  God  is  Youth,"  he  says,  "  and  if  a  figure  may 
represent  him  it  must  be  the  figure  of  a  beautiful 

youth,  already  brave  and  wise He 

should  stand  lightly  on  his  feet  in  the  morning 

time,    eager    to    go    forward his 

eyes  should  be  as  bright  as  swords  ;  his  lips 
should  fall  apart  with  eagerness  for  the  great 
adventure  before  him  .  .  .  ." 

I  must  once  more  return  to  a  comparison  of 
Wells  and  Stevenson.  In  his  "  Floor  Games  " 
(Cecil  Palmer)  he  gives  the  reader  a  sufficient 
impression  that  he  understands  children  and 
that  children  would  love  him  at  sight.  There  is 
no  literary  cunning  in  him  when  he  is  writing 
for  children — he  sees  and  reasons  with  the  eye 
of  a  child.  It  has  remained  for  Wells  to  lay  down 
the  essentials  of  the  ideal  box  of  wooden  bricks. 
They  are  alleged  to  be  : 

Whole  bricks,  4j  inches  X  2j  X  lj. 

Half  bricks,  2J  inches  X  2J  X  lj. 
He  has  studied  the  subject  from  a  practical 
point  of  view,  and  goes  on  to  scold  the  toy 
manufacturers  for  their  want  of  enterprise : 
"  How  utterly  we  depise  the  silly  little  bricks 
of  the  toyshops  !  They  are  too  small  to  make 


PETERPANTHEISM  83 

a  decent  home  for  even  the  poorest  lead  soldiers. 
We  see  rich  people  going  into  toyshops  and 
buying  these  skimpy,  sickly,  ridiculous  pseudo- 
boxes  of  bricklets,  because  they  do  not  know 
what  to  ask  for,  and  the  toyshops  are  just  the 
merciless  mercenary  enemies  of  youth  and 

happiness Their  unfortunate  under- 

parented  offspring  mess  about  with  these  gifts, 
and  don't  make  very  much  of  them,  and  put 
them  away ;  and  you  see  their  consequences 
in  after  life  in  the  weakly-conceived  villas  .  .  . 
that  have  been  built  all  round  London." 

Now  Stevenson,  who  wrote  what  is  by  the 
general  consent  one  of  the  world's  best  books 
for  boys,  and  has  so  lucidly  interpreted  the  soul 
of  childhood  in  "  A  Child's  Garden  of  Verses," 
was  never  really  enthusiastic  over  children  and 
was  very  loath  to  play  with  them.  All  his 
songs  in  the  "  Garden  of  Verses  "  are  of  lost 
youth ;  just  those  kind  of  songs  that  weary 
disillusioned  poets  are  wanting  to  sing  to  us 

wherever  we  wander  over  the  wide  earth  : 

He  does  not  hear  ;  he  will  not  look, 
Nor  yet  be  lured  out  of  this  book. 
For,  long  ago,  the  truth  to  say, 
He  has  grown  up  and  gone  away, 
And  it  is  but  a  child  of  air 
That  lingers  in  the  garden  there. 

On  Mr.  Gosse's  authority  Mr.  Clayton 
Hamilton  says  : 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Louis  belonged  to  the 
considerable  and  not  unworthy  class  of  men  who 
always  feel  uncomfortable  in  the  presence  of 


84  H.   G.   WELLS 

children  who  are  very  young.  He  didn't  know 
what  to  do  with  them.  He  could  write  immortal 
poems  in  reminiscence  of  his  own  childhood ; 
but  he  couldn't  make  a  baby  smile.  Small 
children  didn't  like  him,  because  he  seemed 
queer." 

The  secret  of  Stevenson's  awkwardness  with 
children  is  not  far  to  seek.  He  was  eccentric 
and  far  from  normal ;  his  likeness  does  not  reveal 
an  exterior  which  would  appeal  to  children. 
White,  bony,  beautiful  hands,  long  hair,  queer 
hat,  flowing  cape,  are  not  the  best  passports  to 
the  freedom  of  the  nursery.  All  children  love 
normal  men,  and  all  normal  men  love  children. 
So  once  again  Wells's  attitude  proves  the  truth 
of  Mr.  Sidney  Dark's  assertion  that  he  is  as  other 
men — "  an  articulate  man  of  the  people  " — 
"  a  short  stocky  man  with  a  scrubby  moustache  " 
like  a  million  other  fathers  in  our  cities'  streets. 

One  sign  that  he  has  not  accomplished  the 
foolish  aim  of  the  majority  and  pushed  his  child- 
hood behind  him,  is  that  he  still  only  works  in 
childish  bouts  of  spontaneity ;  and  another 
sign  is  that  he  does  not  hire  people  to  work  and 
play  for  him.  We  who  have  lost  the  child-spirit 
and  are  too  weary  to  play  ourselves  must  perforce 
fall  back  on  hirelings  to  play  for  us.  The  crowds 
that  fight  their  way  to  the  prize  ring,  race-course, 
cricket  or  football  match  is  proof  positive  of  this 
fact.  Wells  is  sane  and  healthy  and  does  not  want 
dancers  to  dance  for  him  or  drummers  to  drum 


PETERPANTHEISM  85 

for  him  or  typists  to  type  for  him.  He  never 
dictates,  but  has  written  all  his  books  and  short 
stories  with  "  his  familiar  fountain  pen  "  by  his 
own  hand.  The  description  of  the  dancing  in 
"  Mr.  Britling  Sees  it  Through  "  shows  that  he 
has  not  forgotten  what  real  riotous  play  means  : 

"  But  it  was  very  amusing  dancing.  It  wasn't 
any  sort  of  taught  formal  dancing.  It  was  a 
spontaneous  retort  to  the  leaping  American 
music  that  Mr.  Britling  footed  out.  You  kept 
time,  and  for  the  rest  you  did  as  your  nature 
prompted.  If  you  had  a  partner  you  joined  hands, 
you  fluttered  to  and  from  one  another,  you 
paced  down  the  long  floor  together,  you  involved 
yourselves  in  romantic  pursuits  and  repulsions 
with  other  couples.  There  was  no  objection  to 
your  dancing  alone." 

It  seems  desirable  here  to  refer  back  to  an 
article  on  Wells  in  the  New  York  Herald 
(April  15th,  1906)  and  to  quote  his  own  words 
on  his  secret  of  writing.  He  describes  his  bouts 
of  spontaneity  here  as  I  have  not  seen  him 
describe  them  in  any  of  his  books  : 

"  When  asked  what  was  his  method  of  writing, 
Mr.  Wells  said  that  he  had  not  the  remotest  idea 
of  how  he  did  his  books  ;  that  they  were  just 
written,  and  that  was  all  he  knew  about  it. 
Neither  did  he  know  how  much  manuscript  he 
turned  out  at  a  time.  In  an  unguarded  moment 
once  he  stated  that  he  wrote  seven  thousand  words 
a  day.  About  a  year  after  making  this  remark- 
able statement  Mr.  Wells  said  : 


86  H.   G.   WELLS 

"  '  Well,  you  must  say  something,  you  know, 
and  so  I  said  that.  That  seven  thousand  words 
a  day  statement  pursued  me  in  paragraphs  for 
months  afterward,  accompanied  by  every 
conceivable  form  of  reprehension.  After  it  had 
hounded  me  for  quite  awhile  I  thought  it  over 
one  day  and  found  that  if  I  had  written  seven 
thousand  words  a  day  I  must  have  written  all  my 
books  in  the  course  of  a  single  year.  That  inclines 
me  to  disbelieve  my  own  statements.' 

"Mr.  Wells  has  tried  all  sorts  of  regimes 
in  writing  in  order  to  get  the  best  results  out  of 
himself — which  is,  after  all,  every  one's  main 
business  in  the  world.  But  he  has  not  yet 
reached  any  final  plan.  Of  course,  it  goes  without 
saying  that  any  author  who  turns  out  as  much 
work  as  Mr.  Wells  does  must  be  in  a  fair  state  of 
health  to  accomplish  it,  and  he,  therefore, 
conserves  it  with  a  reasonable  amount  of  daily 
exercise  taken  in  a  regular  way. 

"  That  mysterious  something  known  among 
literary  people  as  4  atmosphere  '  is  a  fetish  to 
which  Mr.  Wells  pins  considerable  faith.  He 
does  not  know  what  it  is  himself,  and  how  to 
get  it  has  always  been  a  mystery  to  him. 
Atmosphere  he  has  found  is  something  that  very 
frequently  goes  wrong  when  you  do  get  it. 

'*  '  Sometimes,'  said  he,  '  I  fancy  you  get 
atmosphere  by  talking  with  people  who  talk  well. 
At  other  times  it  seems  to  come  out  of  solitary 
meditation,  or  it  is  wooed  by  persistent  work 


PETERPANTHEISM  87 

or  by  complete  rest,  or  by  society,  or  by  slow 
work  at  home,  or  by  going  to  live  in  a  quiet 
farm-house. 

"  '  Travel  to  some  place  where  there  is  neither 
paper,  pens  nor  ink,  always  seems  particularly 
conducive  to  literary  atmosphere  and  a  desire 
to  write.  I  suppose  that  it  is  only  another 
example  of  the  perverseness  of  human  nature.' 

*' '  Mr.  Wells  has  tried  time  and  again,  as  he 
has  stated,  to  devise  working  rules,  say,  from 
ten  to  twelve  a.m.  and  from  four  to  seven  p.m. 
every  day  for  five  days  a  week,  or  something  of 
the  sort.  Any  persistent  regularity,  however, 
he  became  convinced,  led  to  dryness  and  life- 
lessness  in  his  work,  until  finally  he  has  come  more 
and  more  to  the  theory  of  the  happy  moment 
and  inspiration.  He  has  found  that  he  can  do 
more  in  an  hour  in  that  condition  of  spontaneous 
impulse  than  in  a  whole  week  of  regular  effort. 

"  Almost  all  his  early  works  were  fairly 
spontaneous.  His  magazine  essays,  which  were 
subsequently  published  under  the  titles  of 
'  Certain  Personal  Matters '  and  '  Select 
Conversations  with  an  Uncle,'  were  written  in 
that  way.  It  was  his  custom  then  to  get  up  in  the 
morning  and  talk  with  Mrs.  Wells  about  any  ideas 
that  he  had  in  his  head,  and  after  breakfast  he 
would  sit  down  to  work  them  out.  If  the 
inspiration  did  not  come  then  he  pushed  the 
matter  aside  because  it  was  sure  to  come  later. 
In  this  way  he  used  to  do  about  three  articles 


88  H.   G.  WELLS 

a  week,  and  is  still  satisfied  with  most  of  them. 
4  The  Stolen  Bacillus  '  and  most  of  his  earlier 
short  stories  were  written  in  this  manner. 

*' 4  The  Time  Machine '  he  wrote  under  an 
impulse  in  the  same  way.  The  material  for 
it  came  wonderfully  fast,  and  the  final  work  of 
writing  it  was  all  done  in  a  fortnight.  Under 
those  conditions  he  wrote  steadily  from  nine 
in  the  morning  until  eleven  at  night,  only 
stopping  for  the  necessary  intermissions  of 
meals. 

44  Many  of  his  long  stories  he  wrote  in  inter- 
mittent periods  of  spontaneousness.  They  were 
often  dropped  in  the  midst  of  other  work, 
then  toiled  at,  taken  to  pieces  and  put  together 
again  in  all  sorts  of  ways.  4  The  War  of  Worlds  ' 
and  4  The  Invisible  Man  '  were  each  written  in 
this  way  in  intermittent  bouts  of  inspiration. 

44  At  one  time  Mr.  Wells  tried  to  work  accord- 
ing to  what  appeared  to  be  the  accepted  recipe 
for  serious  endeavour.  He  drew  up  an  elaborate 
scheme  beforehand  and  worked  with  industry, 
planned  out  a  scenario,  memoranda,  notebook 
and  all  the  rest  of  it.  When  he  recovered  from 
that  particular  period  he  said  that  the  Laocoon 
reminded  him  always  afterwards  of  a  novelist 
struggling  with  a  scenario. 

44  In  4  Love  and  Mr.  Lewisham  '  he  destroyed 
quite  as  much  matter  as  appeared  in  the  book. 
It  emerged  finally  after  an  enormous  slaughter 
of  scenes  and  chapters.  As  he  expresses  it,  he 


PETERPANTHEISM  89 

saved  one  straight  plank  of  the  story  out  of 
a  vast  impossible  scaffold  he  designed.  While 
he  was  fairly  well  satisfied  with  the  result,  he 
was  convinced  that  he  could  have  done  it  much 
better  spontaneously  and  without  all  that 
elaborate  writing  and  destroying. 

"  '  The  First  Men  in  the  Moon '  began  as  a 
short  story  about  Cavorite.  Then  he  decided 
to  make  a  series  of  short  stories,  but  he  found 
that  his  goods  would  not  pack  into  equal  size 
bundles,  and  at  last  he  had  the  good  sense  to 
give  up  the  idea  and  let  himself  go.  In  '  The 
Sea  Lady '  he  let  himself  go  without  bit  or 
bridle.  When  the  work  did  not  right  itself  he 
put  it  on  one  side  and  went  back  to  it  later. 

"  Mr.  Wells's  inclination  for  work  is  not 
influenced  by  seasonable  effects.  Sometimes 
he  will  have  three  or  four  good  days,  followed 
by  a  kind  of  stupidity  or  indolence  and  dis- 
traction. Then,  perhaps,  comes  one  day  which 
is  good  and  a  week  of  nothingness." 
5TWhen  the  hilarious  or  spontaneous  work  does 
come  to  Wells,  he  makes  himself  physically  as 
comfortable  as  possible,  and  the  spirit  moves 
him  at  all  hours  of  the  day  and  night  as  we  may 
infer  from  his  kindred  soul  Mr.  Britling  : 

"  Suddenly  Mr.  Britling  threw  back  his  bed- 
clothes and  felt  for  the  matches  on  his  bedside 
table. 

"  Indeed  this  was  by  no  means  the  first 
time  that  his  brain  had  become  a  whirring 


90  H.   G.   WELLS 

torment  in  his  skull.  Previous  experiences  had 
led  to  the  most  careful  provision  for  exactly  such 
states.  Over  the  end  of  the  bed  hung  a  light, 
warm  pyjama  suit  of  llama  wool,  and  at  the 
feet  of  it  were  two  tall  boots  of  the  same  material 
that  buckled  to  the  middle  of  his  calf.  So  pro- 
tected, Mr.  Britling  proceeded  to  make  himself 
tea.  A  Primus  stove  stood  ready  inside  the 
fender  of  his  fireplace,  and  on  it  was  a  brightly 
polished  brass  kettle  filled  with  water ;  a  little 
table  carried  a  tea-caddy,  a  tea-pot,  a  lemon 
and  a  glass.  Mr.  Britling  lit  the  stove  and  then 
strolled  to  his  desk.  He  was  going  to  write 
certain  '  Plain  Words  about  Ireland.'  He  lit 
his  study  lamp  and  meditated  beside  it  until  a 
sound  of  water  boiling  called  him  to  his  tea- 
making." 

A  depiction  of  the  personal  appearance  of 
Wells  by  a  journalist  who  is  a  friend  of  mine  is 
interesting.  My  friend  speaks  in  the  manner 
of  Alfred  Jingle  and  is  strictly  sparing  in  his 
description,  but  I  jotted  it  down  directly  I 
reached  home,  and  I  think  it  is  the  best  I  have 
seen  : 

"  Came  to  my  office  about  some  proofs. 
Saw  him  coming.  Felt  a  bit  nervous.  Was 
astonished  by  his  extraordinary  high  pitched 
voice.  Didn't  think  I  should  like  him.  Didn't 
think  I  should  ever  understand  a  word  he  said. 
His  high,  sharp  voice  was  much  like  that  of 
George  Meredith.  It  irritated  me.  Noticed 


PETERPANTHEISM  91 

almost  immediately  that  his  manner  was  natural 
and  almost  child-like  in  its  simplicity.  He  is 
rather  a  small  man,  medium  height,  tired  looking 
blue  eyes.  His  eyes  belied  him.  Full  of  energy. 
Saw  that.  But  the  voice  was  not  worthy  of  the 
man.  However,  he  soon  wins  through  to  one's 
liking  and  admiration — he  has  a  perfect  genius 
for  friendship." 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    QUALITIES    OF     LITERATURE,     ALE     AND 
MOTOR-CYCLES 

IN  another  part  of  this  book  I  have  hinted  that 
Wells  does  not  look  upon  the  man  who  is  merely 
a  cunning  and  persuasive  stylist  with  any  great 
respect.  Literature  does  not  interest  him  merely 
because  of  any  rare  and  exquisite  qualities,  and 
he  would  contest  very  stubbornly  Oscar  Wilde's 
dictum  that  "  all  art  is  at  once  surface  and 
symbol."  He  expects  to  find  in  a  man's  writings 
(and  carries  out  the  idea  in  his  own  books)  a 
mixture  of  literature  and  life  in  equal  degree, 
and  certainly  in  his  last  novel  "  The  Secret  Places 
of  the  Heart "  he  thinks  of  the  two  it  is  better 
to  be  short  on  literature  and  long  on  life. 

The  young  school  of  writers  who  were  following 
in  the  steps  of  the  French  Decadents  in  1890 
were  willing  "  to  forgive  a  man  for  making  a 
useful  thing  as  long  as  he  did  not  admire  it." 
Wells  would  not  forgive  a  man  for  making  a  useful 
thing  if  he  did  not  admire  it.  That  places  him 
as  an  ordinary  man — "  one  of  us  " — at  once. 
Mr.  H.  M.  Tomlinson  declares  that  he  would  not 
give  the  "  beard  of  an  onion  "  for  the  addition  of 
exquisiteness  to  Wells's  work,  and  goes  on  to  say, 
"  Wells  himself  is  of  the  crowd,  not  an  artist — 
in  the  exclusive  sense  of  that  word — but  one  of 

92 


QUALITIES   OF  LITERATURE        93 

the  multitude,  superlatively  endowed  with 
intelligence  and  energy,  the  manifest  spokesman 
for  a  scientific  and  industrial  community." 

No,  if  style  alone  is  to  be  accounted  the  highest 
form  of  literature,  he  is  no  "  literary  gentleman  " 
— an  offensive  phrase,  I  fear,  but  one  that  fits. 

Style  without  any  helpful  purpose  is  a  poor 
recommendation  to  any  book.  It  is  the  same  in 
literature  as  it  is  in  the  science  of  engineering. 
Let  us  carry  the  aim  and  end  of  style  to  the 
construction  of  that  most  modern  branch  of 
engineering,  the  motor-cycle.  Now  many  people 
may  think  there  is  no  such  a  thing  as  "  style  " 
in  such  a  machine,  and  therein  they  are  surely 
at  fault.  The  outward  appearance  and  sweeping 
lines  of  tube  and  tank  and  engine  is  a  most  desir- 
able thing  in  a  motor-cycle,  and  many  manu- 
facturers have  come  to  financial  ruin  through 
sticking  to  an  ugly  style  of  design.  But  felicity 
of  line  and  finish  is  not  all  that  one  wants — style 
must  be  attended  with  strength,  a  serviceable 
engine  and  fool-proof  gears.  It  is  possible  for  a 
motor-cycle  to  be  artistically  perfect  and  mechani- 
cally poisonous,  and  I  take  it  that  the  same  thing 
may  occur  in  the  making  of  a  book. 

Has  Wells  style  ?  The  question  is  rather 
difficult  to  answer.  My  own  point  of  view  is  that 
he  has  a  very  rare  style — the  style  of  Dickens — a 
power  of  diction  that  cuts,  and  blazes  a  trail 
through  the  dense  forest  of  custom.  One  has 
only  to  read  his  charming  story  "  The  Wheels 


94  H.   G.   WELLS 

of  Chance  "  to  know  how  faithfully  he  comes  back 
in  the  little  affairs  of  everyday  life.  One  is  often 
attracted  by  his  subtle  use  of  words — excellent 
words  that  are  to  be  praised  because  they  are 
exact  and  definite.  This  is  to  be  seen  when  he 
is  writing  of  the  magic  quality  of  moonlight  on 
the  Sussex  Downs  : 

"  By  the  moonlight  every  man,  dull  clod  though 
he  be  by  day,  tastes  something  of  Endymion, 
takes  something  of  the  youth  and  strength  of 
Endymion,  and  sees  the  dear  white  goddess 
shining  at  him  from  his  lady's  eyes.  The  firm 
substantial  daylight  things  become  ghostly  and 
elusive,  the  hills  beyond  are  a  sea  of  unsubstantial 
texture,  the  world  a  visible  spirit ;  the  spiritual 
within  us  rises  out  of  its  darkness,  loses  some- 
thing of  its  weight  and  body,  and  swims  up 
towards  heaven.  This  road  that  was  a  mere 
rutted  white  dust,  hot  underfoot,  blinding  to  the 
eye,  is  now  a  soft  grey  silence,  with  the  glitter 
of  a  crystal  grain  set  starlike  in  its  silver  here  and 
there.  Overhead,  riding  serenely  through  the 
spacious  blue,  is  the  mother  of  the  silence,  she 
who  has  spiritualised  the  world,  alone  save  for 
two  attendant  steady  shining  stars.  And  in 
silence  under  her  benign  influence,  under  the 
benediction  of  her  light,  rode  our  two  wanderers 
side  by  side  through  the  transfigured  and  trans- 
figuring night." 

Wells's  art  is  always  close  to  actual  life,  and 
his  style  is  in  harmony  with  the  common  language 


QUALITIES   OF   LITERATURE         95 

of  the  people,  which  is  another  way  of  saying 
it  is  full  of  homeliness.  He  knows  that  the  "  tears 
of  things  "  are  a  part  of  actual  life  and  not  so 
much  subject-matter  and  baggage  of  the  crowd 
who  toil  up  the  slopes  of  Parnassus. 

The  most  paltry  incidents  which  happen  to 
Hoopdriver  become  replete  with  mystery  when 
his  creator  is  near  to  illumine  their  wonder — 
he  is  alert,  energetic,  fertile  in  fancy.  He  tells 
us  with  peculiar  appropriateness  the  effect  a  pint 
of  brisk  Sussex  ale  would  have  on  a  weedy 
underfed  draper's  assistant — we  are  dealing 
with  the  ale  of  twenty  years  ago,  it  must  be 
remembered  : 

"  At  the  inn  they  gave  him  biscuits  and  cheese, 
and  a  misleading  pewter  measure  of  sturdy  ale, 
pleasant  under  the  palate,  cool  in  the  throat, 
but  leaden  in  the  legs,  of  a  hot  afternoon.  He 
felt  a  man  of  substance  as  he  emerged  in  the 
blinding  sunshine,  but  even  by  the  foot  of  the 
down  the  sun  was  insisting  again  that  his  skull 
was  too  small  for  his  brains.  The  hill  had  gone 
steeper,  the  chalky  road  blazed  like  a  magnesium 
light,  and  his  front  wheel  began  an  apparently 
incurable  squeaking.  He  felt  as  a  man  from 
Mars  would  feel  if  he  were  suddenly  transferred 
to  this  planet,  about  three  times  as  heavy  as  he 
was  wont  to  feel  ....  Surely  the  Sussex 
ale  is  made  of  the  waters  of  Lethe,  of  poppies 
and  pleasant  dreams." 

Not  even  style  may  be  purchased  at  the  price 


96  H.   G.   WELLS 

of  actual  life  in  literature.  Experts  look  at 
four  points  in  good  ale — flavour,  colour,  strength, 
piquancy.  If  beer  has  not  a  certain  engaging 
flavour  to  it,  then  no  amount  of  excellence  in  other 
respects  can  save  it  from  being  common  "  swipes." 
It  is  the  same  thing  with  the  art  and  craft  of 
letters.  If  a  writer  has  no  sense  of  actual  life 
in  his  work,  then  all  his  style  is  of  no  avail. 
There  is  a  brilliant  atmosphere  of  "  style  "  in 
Wilde's  "  Picture  of  Dorian  Gray,"  but  that 
does  not  save  it  from  condemnation — it  is  tedious 
and  stupid  because  it  lacks  virility,  vitality, 
strength  of  creation,  and  the  spirit  of  LIFE. 

There  is  often  an  echo  of  Browning  in  the  style 
and  philosophy  of  Wells.  It  is  very  noticeable 
in  "  Marriage  "  when  we  hear  Trafford  probing 
deeply  into  the  heart  of  things  : — 

"  Perhaps  I  shall  die  a  Christian  yet.  The 
other  Christians  won't  like  me  if  I  do.  What 
was  I  saying  ?  ....  It  is  what  I  reach 
up  to,  what  I  desire  shall  pervade  me,  not  what 
I  am.  Just  as  far  as  I  give  myself  purely  to 
knowledge,  to  making  feeling  and  thought  clear 
in  my  mind  and  words,  to  the  understanding 
and  expression  of  the  realities  and  relations  of 
life,  just  so  far  do  I  achieve  Salvation  .  .  . 
Salvation !  .  . 

"  I  wonder,  is  salvation  the  same  for  every- 
one ?  Perhaps  for  one  man  salvation  is  research 
and  thought,  and  for  another,  expression  in 
art,  and  for  another,  nursing  lepers.  Provided  he 
does  it  in  the  spirit.  He  has  to  do  it  in  the  spirit." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"  RUSSIA  IN  THE  SHADOWS  " 

As  a  man  of  letters,  alive  to  the  densely  self 
satisfied  and  instinctively  monopolistic  outlook 
of  the  British  people,  Wells  deserves  praise  for 
one  important  feature  in  this  book  on  the 
collapse  of  Russia.  The  title  is  not  a  challenge. 
Instead  of  imposing  on  the  public  with  an 
experiment  in  special  pleading  for  certain 
Bolsheviki  with  a  volume  of  suppressed  facts, 
"  Russia  in  the  Shadows "  honestly  suggests 
"  The  Case  against  Bolshevism,"  and  puts  the 
reader  at  once  into  touch  with  all  the  terrors, 
hindrances  and  shortcomings  of  the  Soviet 
Government.  That  is  what  we  expect  from  a 
literary  man  writing  a  book  "  by  request  "  on  a 
regime  which  is  in  entire  opposition  to  his  own 
views  on  the  jig-saw  puzzle  of  class  war  and  the 
new  world  methods  of  socialism.  In  the  reviews 
of  this  book  Wells  has  been  often  misquoted 
and  misrepresented  and  so,  at  the  outset,  it 
will  be  quite  as  well  to  place  on  record  his  own 
disclaimer  in  regard  to  the  suggestions  of  the 
Press  and  Henry  Arthur  Jones'  absurd  book 
"  My  Dear  Wells "  that  he  is  in  favour  of 
Bolshevik  methods.  As  a  matter  of  fact  his 
attitude  to  Bolshevism  is  not  one  of  approval 


97  H 


98  H.   G.   WELLS 

at  all.  He  has  always  opposed  the  levelling 
down  of  a  people  which  of  course  is  the 
intention  of  the  Bolsheviki ;  he  sees  no  peculiar 
profit  in  the  mere  destruction  of  capitalism,  the 
disuse  of  money  and  trading  and  the  effacement 
of  all  social  differences  which  are  all  their 
principles.  But  at  the  same  time  he  also  opposes 
the  obstinate  resistance  of  the  English  mind  to 
much  that  is  just  and  noble  in  the  cult  of 
Bolshevism. 

There  is  a  story  of  an  Indian  Prince  who, 
acting  as  a  judge,  having  heard  one  side  of  the 
case,  had  the  matter  fully  balanced  in  his  mind, 
but  who  having  heard  the  other  also,  had  no 
judgment  at  all  on  it,  and  then  declared  himself 
as  follows  :  "I  am  weary  of  all  this  talking  and 
cold  argument.  This  method  of  trying  to  arrive 
at  judgment  by  hearing  both  sides  is  a  foolish 
plan,  and  makes  any  decision  quite  out  of  the 
question.  It  defeats  justice,  and  since  justice 
calls  upon  me  to  give  some  judgment,  it  is  my 
plain  duty  never  to  hear  both  sides  again." 
Now  anyone  who  wishes  to  keep  his  delusions 
about  Bolshevism  must  not  under  any  conditions 
read  Wells's  book.  Like  the  Indian  Prince  the 
British  public  have  these  Bolsheviki  judged  to  a 
nicety — but  unfortunately  their  judgment  is 
based  on  the  crazier  section  of  the  British  Press. 
They  think  of  the  members  of  the  Soviet 
Government  as  a  wild  mob  only  distinguished 
for  their  licentiousness,  debauchery  and  barbarous 


RUSSIA   IN   THE   SHADOWS  99 

cruelty.  The  picture  is  quite  persistent  in  the 
papers  and  magazines,  with  the  luxurious 
interior  of  a  "  looted  "  Russian  palace,  champagne 
in  buckets,  and  dark-eyed  Russian  damsels 
accepted  with  a  nodded  "  Of  course."  But  a 
moment's  thought  should  give  the  reader  the 
true  picture.  Wells  has  it  very  sharply  defined 
in  his  book.  He  tells  us  that  drugs  and  medicine 
during  his  visit  to  Russia  were  unattainable, 
strengthening  and  stimulating  food  was  not 
procurable  in  the  best  hospital,  hardly  anyone 
had  a  change  of  underclothing,  everybody  used 
old  leaky  boots,  distinguished  scientific  men  and 
members  of  the  Soviet  Government  considered 
themselves  lucky  if  they  were  issued  with  say  a 
piece  of  damp  clay-like  bread  in  addition  to 
their  daily  ration,  as  a  reward  for  meritorious 
service  to  the  existing  regime.  Collars,  ties, 
shoelaces,  sheets  and  blankets,  spoons  and 
forks,  all  the  haberdashery  and  crockery  of 
life,  were  not  to  be  purchased  anywhere.  There 
was  no  replacing  a  broken  piece  of  crockery 
unless  one  stole  out  in  the  darkness  and  entered 
into  illegal  trading  with  a  pariah  huckster.  All 
trading  was  called  "  speculation,"  and  had 
become  unlawful.  The  detected  trader  who  was 
found  guilty  of  buying  and  selling  with  a 
covetous  desire  to  make  money  was  stood  up 
against  a  wall  and  shot. 

This  is  a  dreadful  state  of  affairs,  and  it  has 
not  become  a  great  deal  better  since  Wells  wrote 


100  H.   G.   WELLS 

his  book.     But  the  Bolsheviks  have  done  quite 
as   well  as   any   other   method   of  Government 
in  trying  to  build  a  new  Russia  in  the  face  of 
blockade  and  civil  and  foreign  war.    It  is  useless 
for  the  British  citizen  to  blink  at  the  fact  that 
we  spent  £100,000,000  in  various  attempts  to 
starve  and  cripple  the  Bolsheviki.     Besides  the 
active    hostilities    we    conducted    or    supported 
for  many  months,  we  enforced  a  rigid  blockade, 
intended,  as  far  as  possible  to  deprive  Russia  of 
the  necessaries  of  life.    One  of  the  most  terrible 
results  of  the  blockade  was  the  fact  that  it  stopped 
the  supplies  of  anaesthetics  reaching  the  hospitals. 
One  need  not  have  a  vivid  imagination  to  picture 
the  tortures  endured  in  the  operating    theatres 
as  a  direct  result  of  such  a  hold  up.    Supported 
by  the  British,  the  "  armies  of  Koltchak,  Denikin 
and  Wrangel  ranged  over  vast  areas,  wasting, 
ravaging,  destroying  the  means  of  subsistence, 
bridges,   roads,   machinery,   transport — a  factor 
of  tremendous  importance  in  the  causation  of  the 
famine."     The  Englishman  who  is  inclined  to 
cavil  at  Wells's  sympathy  for  the  creative  effort 
of  the  Bolshevik  must  always  remember  these 
facts. 

"  Who  are  these  Bolsheviki  ?  "  he  asks  the 
reader.  "  They  are  Marxist  Socialists."  Marx 
died  forty  years  ago,  and  he  has  always  regarded 
him  as  a  bore  of  the  extremest  sort. 

"  When  I  encountered  Marxists  I  disposed 
of  them  by  asking  them  to  tell  me  exactly  what 


RUSSIA  IN  THE   SHADOWS         101 

people  constituted  the  proletariat.  None  of 
them  knew.  No  Marxist  knows.  In  Gorky's 
flat  I  listened  with  attention  while  Bokaiev 
discussed  with  Shalyapin  the  fine  question  of 
whether  in  Russia  there  was  a  proletariat  at  all, 
distinguishable  from  the  peasants.  As  Bokaiev 
has  been  head  of  the  Extraordinary  Commission 
of  the  Dictatorship  of  the  Proletariat  in  Peters- 
burg, it  was  interesting  to  note  the  fine  difficulties 
of  the  argument.  The  4  proletarian '  in  the 
Marxist  jargon  is  like  the  c  producer  '  in  the 
jargon  of  some  political  economists,  who  is  sup- 
posed to  be  a  creature  absolutely  distinct  and 
different  from  the  '  consumer.'  So  the  proletarian 
is  a  figure  put  into  flat  opposition  to  something 
called  capital.  I  find  in  large  type  outside  the 
current  number  of  the  Plebs,  '  The  working  class 
and  the  employing  class  have  nothing  in 
common.'  Apply  this  to  a  works  foreman  who 
is  being  taken  in  a  train  by  an  engine-driver  to 
see  how  the  house  he  is  having  built  for  him  by  a 
building  society  is  getting  on.  To  which  of  these 
immiscibles  does  he  belong,  employer  or 
employed  ?  The  stuff  is  sheer  nonsense." 

Among  the  things  Wells  wanted  most  to  see 
amid  the  social  collapse  in  Russia  was  the  work 
of  his  old  friend  Maxim  Gorky.  It  seems  that 
he  found  the  famous  novelist  acting  as  a  semi- 
official salvage  man.  During  the  catastrophe 
of  1917-18  the  scientific  workers  were  pushed 
to  the  wall  in  every  way,  and  at  first  the  Soviet 


102  H.   G.   WELLS 

Government  were  too  confused  and  harassed 
by  the  wild  disorder  of  the  mob  to  think  about 
this  class  of  worker.  So  it  followed  that  doctors 
and  chemists  were  reduced  to  a  state  of  utmost 
privation. 

It  was  to  the  assistance  of  the  survivors  of  the 
Russian  scientific,  literary  and  artistic  world  that 
Gorky  first  lent  aid.  It  is  chiefly  through  his 
effort  that  "  there  has  now  been  organised  a 
group  of  salvage  establishments,  of  which  the 
best  and  most  fully  developed  is  the  House  of 
Science  in  Petersburg,  in  the  ancient  palace  of 
the  Archduchess  Marie  Pavlova.  Here  we  saw 
the  headquarters  of  a  special  rationing  system 
which  provides  as  well  as  it  can  for  the  needs  of 
four  thousand  scientific  workers  and  their 
dependants — in  all  perhaps  for  ten  thousand 
people.  At  this  centre  they  not  only  draw 
their  food  rations,  but  they  can  get  baths  and 
barber,  tailoring,  cobbling  and  the  like  conveni- 
ences. There  is  even  a  small  stock  of  boots  and 
clothing.  There  are  bedrooms,  and  a  sort  of 
hospital  accommodation  for  cases  of  weakness 
and  ill-health." 

Wells  spent  a  few  hours  at  this  institution  and 
met  there  many  celebrated  men — careworn  and 
dispirited  looking  figures — among  whom  were 
such  famous  names  as  Oldenburg  the  orientalist, 
Kaspinsky  the  geologist  and  Pavloff  the  Nobel 
prizeman.  They  were  without  new  instruments, 
short  of  paper  and  working  in  badly  fitted  cold 


RUSSIA  IN  THE   SHADOWS         103 

laboratories.  Yet  they  were  still  moving  forward. 
Manuchin  claims  to  have  worked  out  "  an  effect- 
ual cure  for  tuberculosis,  even  in  advanced  cases  ; 
I  have  brought  back  abstracts  of  Manuchin's 
work  for  translation  and  publication  here  .  . 

Besides  the  salvage  of  scientific  and  literary 
work  and  workers,  Maxim  Gorky  has  charge  of 
a  third  and  still  more  curious  organisation  for  the 
preservation  of  works  of  art,  antiquities  and  the 
like  which  have  passed  into  the  possession  of 
the  new  social  system  : 

"  The  palace  that  once  sheltered  the  British 
Embassy  is  now  like  some  congested  second- 
hand art  shop  in  the  Brompton  Road.  There 
are  big  rooms  crammed  with  statuary ;  never 
have  I  seen  so  many  white  marble  Venuses  and 
sylphs  together,  not  even  in  the  Naples  Museum. 
There  are  stacks  of  pictures  of  every  sort, 
passages  choked  with  inlaid  cabinets  piled  up  to 
the  ceiling ;  a  room  full  of  cases  of  old  lace, 
piles  of  magnificent  furniture.  This  accumula- 
tion has  been  counted  and  catalogued.  And 
there  it  is.  I  could  not  find  out  that  any  one  had 
an  idea  of  what  was  ultimately  to  be  done  with 
all  this  lovely  and  elegant  litter." 

I  think  that  Wells 's  naive  doubtfulness  as  to 
what  would  become  of  all  this  elegant  litter  is 
all  my  eye  and  Betty  Martin.  He  has  a  very  good 
idea,  I  think.  Surely  it  is  being  sold  to  the  art 
dealers  in  the  United  States,  and  finding  its  way 
back  in  the  form  of  dollars  to  the  Soviet  Head- 


104  H.   G.   WELLS 

quarters  in  London.  If  this  is  not  the  case  it  is 
very  puzzling  how  the  Soviet  Banking  Depart- 
ment come  by  the  large  dollar  drafts  they  are  so 
frequently  selling  to  the  London  banks. 

The  Home  of  Rest  for  Workmen  in  the 
Kamenni  Ostrof  seems  to  be  rather  a  fanciful 
idea  for  a  nation  of  starving  people.  In  this 
place  workers  are  sent  to  live  a  life  of  luxury  and 
elegance  for  a  month  at  a  time.  "It  is  a  very 
beautiful  country  house  with  big  gardens,  an 
orangery,  and  subordinate  buildings.  The 
meals  are  served  on  white  cloths  with  flowers 
upon  the  table  and  so  forth.  And  the  worker 
has  to  live  up  to  these  elegant  surroundings. 
It  is  a  part  of  his  education.  If  in  a  forgetful 
moment  he  clears  his  throat  in  the  good  old 
resonant  peasant  manner  and  spits  upon  the 
floor,  an  attendant,  I  was  told,  chalks  a  circle 
about  the  defilement  and  obliges  him  to  clean  the 
offended  parquetry  .  .  .  But,  after  all,  the 
idea  of  civilising  your  workpeople  by  dipping 
them  into  pleasant  surroundings  is,  in  itself, 
rather  a  good  one  .  ';••'.  " 

Wells  was  very  curious  to  see  Lenin,  and  was 
disposed  to  be  hostile  to  him.  He  journeyed  to 
Moscow  for  the  sole  purpose  of  meeting  this 
fierce  little  man,  and  found  him  at  a  great  desk 
in  one  of  the  palatial  halls  of  the  Kremlin  : 

"  I  had  come  expecting  to  struggle  with  a 
doctrinaire  Marxist.  I  found  nothing  of  the 
sort.  I  had  been  told  that  Lenin  lectured  people  ; 


RUSSIA  IN   THE   SHADOWS         105 

he  certainly  did  not  do  so  on  this  occasion.  Much 
has  been  made  of  his  laugh  in  the  descriptions, 
a  laugh  which  is  said  to  be  pleasing  at  first  and 
afterwards  to  become  cynical.  This  laugh  was  not 
in  evidence.  His  forehead  reminded  me  of  some 
one  else — I  could  not  remember  who  it  was, 
until  the  other  evening  I  saw  Mr.  Arthur  Balfour 
sitting  and  talking  under  a  shaded  light.  It  is 
exactly  the  same  domed,  slightly  one-sided 
cranium.  Lenin  has  a  pleasant,  quick-changing, 
brownish  face,  with  a  lively  smile  and  a  habit 
(due  perhaps  to  some  defect  in  focussing)  of  screw- 
ing up  one  eye  as  he  pauses  in  his  talk." 

Lenin's  dream  is  the  electrification  of  Russia, 
and  he  is  putting  forward  a  scheme  for  the 
development  of  power  stations  to  serve  whole 
provinces  with  light,  transport  and  industrial 
power  : 

"  We  opened  our  talk  with  a  discussion  of  the 
future  of  the  great  towns  under  Communism. 
I  wanted  to  see  how  far  Lenin  contemplated  the 
dying  out  of  the  towns  in  Russia.  The  desolation 
of  Petersburg  had  brought  home  to  me  a  point 
I  had  never  realised  before,  that  the  whole 
form  and  arrangement  of  a  town  is  determined  by 
shopping  and  marketing,  and  that  the  abolition 
of  these  things  renders  nine-tenths  of  the  buildings 
in  an  ordinary  town  directly  or  indirectly 
unmeaning  and  useless.  4  The  towns  will  get 
very  much  smaller,'  he  admitted.  '  They  will 
be  different.  Yes,  quite  different.'  That,  I 


106  H.   G.   WELLS 

suggested,  implied  a  tremendous  task.  It  meant 
the  scrapping  of  the  existing  towns  and  their 
replacement.  The  churches  and  great  buildings 
of  Petersburg  would  become  presently  like  those 
of  Novgorod  the  Great  or  like  the  temples  of 
Paestum.  Most  of  the  town  would  dissolve  away. 
He  agreed  quite  cheerfully." 


CHAPTER   IX 

THE  PROGRESS  OF  MR.  POLLY 

WHEN  we  come  to  "  The  History  of  Mr.  Polly  " 
we  are  getting  very  near  to  Wells  at  his  best. 
The  whole  story  is  a  spontaneous  gesture  of 
pure  feeling.  The  essays  in  prophetic  fiction 
betray  the  conscious  resolution  of  a  clever  man 
of  letters  to  make  the  most  effective  use  of  good 
material.  But  Mr.  Polly  is  a  bout  of  spontaneity. 
The  wonderful  and  rather  tedious  land  of  Utopia 
where  we  are  given  pictures  of  radiant  men  and 
women  walking  through  noble  spaces  oblivious 
of  the  puffy  bustle  and  confusion  of  our  work-a- 
day  world,  is  ingenious  and  well  managed.  The 
point  is  made.  The  workmanship  is  agreeable. 
But  such  work  rarely  succeeds  in  carrying  the 
reader,  as  the  reader  is  carried  upon  the  tide  of 
Mr.  Polly's  revolt  against  indigestion  and 
respectability.  The  value  of  Wells' s  traffics  and 
discoveries  over  the  seas  of  time  and  space  is 
less  than  the  adventures  of  this  shabby  little 
draper  with  his  craving  for  books  and  romance 
and  life. 

Mr.  Polly  is,  of  course,  a  variant  of  Wells. 
But  like  Kipps  and  Smallways  and  Hoopdriver 
he  is  not  quite  Wells,  but  the  author  as  Mr. 
Polly  tells  us  what  he  felt  like  as  a  servant  of 


107 


108  H.   G.   WELLS 

retail  trade.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  had  never 
forgiven  the  destiny  which  sent  him  to  a  depart- 
ment store.  At  the  dinner  in  London  of  the 
Conference  of  the  National  Amalgamated  Union 
of  Shop  Assistants  (April  16th,  1922)  he  related 
in  a  letter  how  he  narrowly  escaped  becoming 
a  drapery  assistant  for  the  rest  of  his  earthly 
term. 

"  As  you  know,  I  began  life  behind  the  counter 
(draper's  counter)  when  I  was  thirteen,  and  I 
suppose  if  I  had  had  a  normal  ability  to  pack 
parcels  and  respect  my  shop-walker  I  should 
have  been  a  draper's  assistant  all  my  life. 

"  What  got  me  out  of  business  was  nothing 
but  incompetence. 

"  I  couldn't  handle  the  stuff  skilfully,  and 
I  couldn't  keep  bright  and  attentive  for  long 
spells. 

"  I  can  work  pretty  well  in  short  spells,  but 
then  I  must  knock  off  for  half  an  hour  or  so 
before  I  can  go  on,  and  the  staying  power  of  my 
colleagues  filled  me  with  astonishment  and 
envy. 

"  To  this  day  the  steady  good  temper  and 
patient  alertness  of  the  shop  assistant  compels 
my  admiration." 

Perhaps  it  is  as  well  to  recite  the  outline  of 
the  story  at  this  stage.  Mr.  Polly  was  first  in- 
structed at  a  National  School  by  more  or  less 
mud-brained  and  spiritless  teachers,  and  when 
he  was  about  twelve  he  was  jerked  away  to 


PROGRESS  OF  MR.   POLLY          109 

a  dingy  private  school  to  "  finish  off,"  where 
"  book-keeping  and  French  were  pursued  (but 
never  effectually  overtaken)  under  the  guidance 
of  an  elderly  gentleman,  who  wore  a  non- 
descript gown  and  took  snuff,  wrote  copperplate, 
explained  nothing,  and  used  a  cane  with  re- 
markable dexterity  and  gusto." 

He  had  a  feeling  for  literature  and  read 
voraciously,  if  without  any  definite  goal.  Even 
as  a  boy  of  fourteen,  after  he  had  emerged  from 
the  "  valley  of  the  shadow  of  education,"  there 
still  remained  with  him  a  little  cloud  of  hope — 
which  seemed  to  float  in  the  background  of  his 
brain — an  idea  that  there  was  interest  and 
happiness  in  the  world  if  he  could  only  break 
through  to  it : 

"  Deep  in  the  being  of  Mr.  Polly,  deep  in  that 
darkness,  like  a  creature  which  has  been  beaten 
about  the  head  and  left  for  dead  but  still  lives, 
crawled  a  persuasion  that  over  and  above  the 
things  that  are  jolly  and  4  bits  of  all  right,' 
there  was  beauty,  there  was  delight ;  that 
somewhere^ — magically  inaccessible  perhaps, 
but  still  somewhere — were  pure  and  easy  and 
joyous  states  of  body  and  mind. 

"  He  would  sneak  out  on  moonless  winter 
nights  and  stare  up  at  the  stars,  and  afterwards 
find  it  difficult  to  tell  his  father  where  he  had 
been." 

Each  one  of  us  contains  within  himself  that 
invisible  sun  which  was  burning  so  fitfully  in 


110  H.   G.    WELLS 

Mr.  Polly's  twilight  soul.  It  is  the  light  that 
Sir  Thomas  Browne  and  all  the  meditative 
philosophers  have  recognised  as  the  centre  of 
the  universe — "  Life  is  a  pure  flame,  and  we 
live  by  an  invisible  sun  within  us."  We  are  all 
inclined  in  a  busy  and  fussy  world  to  ignore 
this  light.  Nothing  is  so  characteristic  of  the 
sweltering  confusion  of  these  days  as  the  growing 
habit  of  endeavouring  to  seek  delight  outside 
of  ourselves.  But  there  is  an  old  saying  that 
if  you  want  all  to  be  well  with  life  you  must 
begin  by  being  well  with  life  yourself. 

However,  it  cost  Mr.  Polly  many  of  the  best 
years  of  his  life  to  find  the  way  to  the  highlands 
and  mountains  of  happiness.  At  fourteen  he 
was  apprenticed  to  the  hosiery  and  gentlemen's 
outfitting.  He  did  not  get  many  rises,  and  lost 
"  cribs "  with  astonishing  steadiness.  There 
was  the  far-away  dreamy  look  of  the  visionary 
in  his  eyes,  and  if  he  could  have  appreciated 
the  poems  of  W.  B.  Yeats  his  imagination  might 
have  responded  to  those  imperishable  lines  : 

And  I  shall  have  some  peace  there,  for  peace  comes 

dropping  slow, 
Dropping  from  the  veils  of  the  morning  to  where 

the  cricket  sings  ; 
There  midnight's  all  a  glimmer,  and  noon  a  purple 

glow, 
And  evening  full  of  the  linnet's  wings. 

I  will  arise  and  go  now,  for  always  night  and  day 
I  hear  lake  water  lapping,  with  low  sounds  by  the 

shore ; 
While  I  stand  on  the  roadway,  or  on  the  pavements 

gray, 
I  hear  it  in  the  deep  heart's  core. 


PROGRESS  OF  MR.   POLLY          111 

As  it  was,  however,  he  was  always  "  dreaming 
of  picturesque  and  mellow  things,  and  reading 
Rabelais  and  Shakespeare  with  gusto ;  and 
he  loved  Falstaff  and  Hudibras  and  coarse 
laughter,  and  the  old  England  of  Washington 
Irving  and  the  memory  of  Charles  the  Second's 
courtly  days.  His  progress  was  necessarily  slow. 
He  would  have  lost  his  places  oftener  if  he  had 
not  been  at  times  an  exceptionally  brilliant 
salesman,  rather  carefully  neat,  and  a  slow  but 
very  fair  window-dresser." 

Then  he  went  to  Canterbury  where  his  soul 
adventured  among  the  masterpieces  of  Gothic 
architecture.  His  mind  became  tuned  to  the 
key  of  the  Middle  Ages  and  he  found  chords 
within  himself  which  joyously  responded  to  the 
hoary  age  of  this  dear  grey  city.  As  he  walked 
its  tortuous  streets  and  lanes  he  had  the  feeling 
of  the  traveller  returned.  He  felt  that  it  was 
the  absolute  earth  of  his  forbears  and  the  place 
gave  him  the  strangest  sense  of  being  at  home. 

Wells's  description  of  Canterbury  is  well  worth 
careful  study  as  illustrating  the  value  of  place, 
atmosphere  and  environment  in  the  highest 
fiction.  In  the  following  passage  we  obtain  a 
glimpse  of  the  feeling  Mr.  Polly  had  for  the  drowsy 
magic  of  the  cathedral.  Wells  writes  of  the 
place  with  an  incontestable  truth,  as  of  things 
desperately  dear  and  intimate,  with  the  result 
that  they  become  to  the  reader  suggestive  word- 
pictures  that  linger  in  the  memory  : 


112  H.   G.   WELLS 

"  He  liked  to  sit  in  the  nave  during  the 
service,  and  look  through  the  great  gates  at  the 
candles  and  choristers,  and  listen  to  the  organ- 
sustained  voices,  but  the  transepts  he  never 
penetrated  because  of  the  charge  for  admission. 
The  music  and  the  long  vista  of  the  fretted  roof 
filled  him  with  a  vague  and  mystical  happiness 
that  he  had  no  words,  even  mispronounceable 
words,  to  express.  But  some  of  the  smug 
monuments  in  the  aisles  got  a  wreath  of  epithets  : 
4  Metrorious  urnfuls,'  l  funererial  claims,' 
4  dejected  angelosity,'  for  example.  He  wandered 
about  the  precincts,  and  speculated  about 
the  people  who  lived  in  the  ripe  and  cosy  houses 
of  grey  stone  that  cluster  there  so  comfortably. 
Through  green  doors  in  high  stone  walls  he 
caught  glimpses  of  level  lawns  and  blazing 
flower-beds  ;  mullioned  windows  revealed  shaded 
reading-lamps  and  disciplined  shelves  of  brown 
bound  books.  Now  and  then  a  dignitary  in 
gaiters  would  pass  him  ('  Portly  capon '),  or  a 
drift  of  white-robed  choir  boys  cross  a  distant 
arcade  and  vanish  in  a  doorway,  or  the  pink 
and  cream  of  some  girlish  dress  flit  like  a  butter- 
fly across  the  cool  still  spaces  of  the  place. 
Particularly  he  responded  to  the  ruined  arches 
of  the  Benedictine's  Infirmary  and  the  view 
of  Bell  Harry  Tower  from  the  school  building. 
He  was  stirred  to  read  the  '  Canterbury  Tales.' ' 

The   literary   appeal   of  Canterbury   is   over- 
whelming,  and  somehow  I   feel  that  I  cannot 


PROGRESS   OF  MR.   POLLY         113 

return  to  Mr.  Polly  without  shaking  hands 
with  our  old  friend  Micawber.  I  wish  he  had  a 
great  extravagant  statue  somewhere  in  the  town, 
and  that  they  would  pull  down  a  red  brick 
chapel  or  some  such  mournful  building  to  make 
room  for  it.  Micawber  took  up  a  temporary 
residence  at  the  Sun  Inn  :  "It  was  a  little  place 
where  Mr.  Micawber  put  up,  and  he  occupied 
a  little  room  in  it."  And  we  must  not  over- 
look the  alert  wisdom  of  Mrs.  Micawber  :  "  We 
came,  and  saw  the  Medway.  My  opinion  of 
the  coal  trade  on  that  river  is,  that  it  may  require 
talent,  but  that  it  certainly  requires  capital. 
Talent  Mr.  Micawber  has  ;  capital  Mr.  Micawber 
has  not.  .  .  .  Being  so  near  here,  Mr. 
Micawber  was  of  opinion  that  it  would  be  rash 
not  to  come  on  and  see  the  cathedral.  Firstly, 
on  account  of  its  being  so  well  worth  seeing, 
and  our  never  having  seen  it ;  and  secondly, 
on  the  great  probability  of  something  turning 
up  in  a  cathedral  town.  We  have  been  here 
three  days.  Nothing  has,  as  yet,  turned  up." 
And  we  must  not  forget  to  look  for  Mr.  Dick, 
who  sojourned  at  the  County  Inn,  which  is 
perchance  the  Fountain  Hotel. 

A  great  change  was  brought  about  in  the 
life  of  Mr.  Polly  by  the  death  of  his  father.  He 
inherited  three  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  and 
with  this  legacy  he  turned  his  thoughts  to 
marriage,  or  rather  his  thoughts  were  cunningly 
turned  for  him.  On  his  wedding  day  Mr.  Polly 

I 


114  H.   G.   WELLS 

was  speculating  in  his  mind  whether  flight  at 
the  eleventh  hour  would  be  criminal  or  merely 
bad  taste,  and  when  his  eyes  first  fell  upon  his 
bride  he  was  filled  with  conflicting  emotions  : 
"  Alarm,  desire,  affection,  respect — and  a  queer 
element  of  reluctant  dislike,  all  played  their 
part  in  that  complex  eddy.  The  grey  dress 
made  her  a  stranger  to  him,  made  her  stiff  and 
commonplace ;  she  was  not  even  the  rather 
drooping  form  that  had  caught  his  facile  sense 
of  beauty  when  he  had  proposed  to  her  in  the 
recreation  ground." 

But  Uncle  Pentstemon  stood  up  like  a  great 
barrier  between  Polly  and  any  hope  of  escape — 
"  a  fragment  from  the  ruder  agricultural  past 
of  our  race."  He  buttonholed  Polly  and  held 
him  prisoner  : 

"  You  got  to  get  married,"  said  Uncle 
Pentstemon.  "  That's  the  way  of  it.  Some 
has.  Some  hain't.  I  done  it  long  before  I  was 
your  age.  It  hain't  for  me  to  blame  you.  You 
can't  'elp  being  the  marrying  sort  any  more 
than  me.  It's  nat'ral — like  poaching,  or  drinking, 
or  wind  on  the  stummik.  You  can't  'elp  it,  and 
there  you  are  !  As  for  the  good  of  it,  there 
hain't  no  particular  good  in  it  as  I  can  see.  It's 
a  toss  up.  The  hotter  come,  the  sooner  cold  ; 
but  they  all  gets  tired  of  it  sooner  or  later.  .  .  . 
I  hain't  no  grounds  to  complain.  Two  I've 
'ad  and  buried,  and  might  'ave  'ad  a  third, 
and  never  no  worrit  with  kids — never.  ." 


PROGRESS   OF  MR.   POLLY         115 

Consider  the  humour  of  that  wedding ;  not  a 
sentence  that  rings  false  or  strained,  only  the 
unnecessary  left  out.  Of  course  a  wedding  never 
said  so  many  pointed  and  exhilarating  things 
before  without  saying  a  great  number  of  drab 
and  dreary  things  too.  But  Wells  omits,  just 
because  he  is  an  artist  and  not  a  photographer. 
It  is  a  thousand  weddings  rolled  into  one  and 
sealed  with  the  "  easy  impudence  of  genius." 
Take  Mr.  Voules,  "  a  licensed  victualler  who 
very  kindly  drove  over  in  a  high-hung  dogcart 
from  Sommershill  with  a  plump  well-dressed 
wife,  to  give  the  bride  away."  Could  one  find  a 
character  more  absolutely  true,  more  irresistibly 
amusing  ?  Mr.  Voules  somehow  guessed  Mr. 
Polly's  longing  to  desert  the  bride  at  the  last 
moment.  A  freak  of  fancy  set  Polly  dreaming 
in  church,  and  swathed  him  about  so  thickly 
that  he  forgot  all  about  Miriam.  Somewhere 
in  the  future  he  was  with  a  beautiful  girl  with 
red  hair  marching  along  some  splendid  aisle. 
He  was  trying  to  capture  the  transient  loveliness 
of  this  dream  bride  of  his  when  he  became 
aware  of  the  watchful  blue  eye  of  Mr.  Voules  : 
"  It  was  the  eye  of  a  man  who  has  got  hold  of  a 
situation.  He  was  a  fat,  short,  red-faced  man, 
clad  in  a  tight-fitting  tail-coat  of  black  and  white 
check,  with  a  coquettish  bow  tie  under  the 
lowest  of  a  number  of  crisp  little  red  chins.  He 
held  the  bride  under  his  arm  with  an  air  of 
invincible  championship,  and  his  free  arm 


116  H.   G.   WELLS 

flourished  a  grey  top-hat  of  an  equestrian  type. 
Mr.  Polly  instantly  learnt  from  that  eye  that 
Mr.  Voules  knew  all  about  his  longing  for  flight. 
Its  azure-rimmed  pupil  glowed  with  disciplined 
resolution.  It  said  :  '  I've  come  to  give  this 
girl  away,  and  give  her  away  I  will.  I'm  here 
now,  and  things  have  to  go  on  all  right.  So 
don't  think  of  it  any  more  ' — and  Mr.  Polly 
didn't.  A  faint  phantom  of  a  certain  '  lill  dog  ' 
that  had  hovered  just  beneath  the  threshold  of 
consciousness  vanished  into  black  impossibility." 
For  fifteen  years  Mr.  Polly  was  a  struggling 
shopkeeper  at  Fishbourne.  They  were  very 
tedious  years  for  him,  and  all  dreams  of  a 
mellow  and  ruddy-faced  method  of  life  had 
quickly  vanished.  "  He  had  visualized  himself 
and  Miriam  first  as  at  breakfast  on  a  clear  bright 
winter  morning  amidst  a  tremendous  smell  of 
bacon,  and  then  as  having  muffins  for  tea. 
He  had  also  thought  of  sitting  on  the  beach  on 
Sunday  afternoons,  and  of  going  for  a  walk  in 
the  country  behind  the  town  and  picking 
marguerites  and  poppies.  But,  in  fact,  Miriam 
and  he  were  usually  extremely  cross  at  break- 
fast, and  it  did  not  run  to  muffins  at  tea.  And 
she  didn't  think  it  looked  well,  she  said,  to  go 
trapesing  about  the  country  on  Sundays." 
As  time  went  on  he  began  to  hate  Miriam,  who 
had  developed  a  meagre  and  irritating  quality 
of  her  own,  and  went  about  with  knitted  brows, 
ardently  banishing  all  the  ease  and  quiet 


PROGRESS   OF  MR.   POLLY         117 

enjoyment  of  the  home  before  some  ideal  of 
"  'aving  everything  right."  She  combined 
earnestness  of  spirit  with  great  practical  in- 
capacity. The  house  was  never  really  trim  and 
tidy,  but  always  in  an  everlasting  state  of  spring- 
cleaning.  Polly's  financial  position  was  also  fast 
becoming  perilous,  too.  It  was  soon  manifest 
that  his  shop  was  a  failure.  Suddenly  one  day 
it  came  to  him  that  his  life  was  an  impossible 
struggle  and  his  outlook  was  utterly  hopeless. 
His  mind  became  possessed  with  the  idea  of 
suicide,  and  he  planned  to  burn  down  his  shop 
and  take  his  own  life  at  one  stroke,  thus  giving 
his  wife  the  advantage  of  a  fair  sum  of  money 
in  the  way  of  insurance.  He  managed  to  set 
half  the  town  of  Fishbourne  ablaze,  but  some- 
how he  neglected  the  suicide  undertaking. 
However,  he  determined  that  a  return  to  the  old 
way  of  life  was  impossible  and  he  determined 
to  alter  it  at  any  price.  He  made  up  his  mind 
to  sneak  away  from  the  town — to  "  clear  out." 

"  The  insurance  money  he  was  to  receive  made 
everything  humane  and  kindly  and  practicable. 
He  would  '  clear  out '  with  justice  and  humanity. 
He  would  take  exactly  twenty-one  pounds,  and 
all  the  rest  he  would  leave  to  Miriam.  That 
seemed  to  him  absolutely  fair.  Without  him, 
she  could  do  all  sorts  of  things — all  the  sorts  of 
things  she  was  constantly  urging  him  to  do  .  ." 

By  country  roads,  picking  his  way  leisurely, 
he  came  to  the  Potwell  Inn — a  pleasant  riverside 


118  H.   G.   WELLS 

hostelry  with  mossed  and  mouldering  purplish 
tile  and  axe-hewn  timber.  Tired  and  desiring 
food,  keen  also  for  rest,  he  stopped  before  it. 
The  inn  received  him,  and  he  found  there  the 
plumpest  woman  he  had  ever  seen,  seated  in  the 
midst  of  the  bottles,  glasses  and  glittering  things, 
peacefully  and  tranquilly  asleep. 

"  My  sort,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

He  soon  discovered  that  she  was  the  landlady — 
a  simple  and  kindly  woman  with  a  comfortable 
outlook  on  the  world  as  God  had  made  it  for  her. 
She  wanted  an  odd  man  about  the  place,  and  Mr. 
Polly  assured  her  that  he  was  "  odd  all  right," 
and  inquired  about  the  wages  : 

"  Not  much,  but  you  get  tips  and  pickings. 
I've  a  sort  of  feeling  it  would  suit  you." 

"  I've  a  sort  of  feeling  it  would.  What's  the 
duties  ?  Fetch  and  carry  ?  Ferry  ?  Garden  ? 
Wash  bottles  ?  Ceteris  paribus  ?  " 

"  That's  about  it,"  said  the  fat  woman. 

"  Give  me  a  trial." 

*'  You  don't  look  a  wrong  'un.  'Ave  you  been 
to  prison  ?  J: 

"  Never." 

"  Nor  a  Reformatory  ?    Nor  any  Institution  ?  " 

"  Not  me.    Do  I  look  reformed  ?  " 

"  Can  you  paint  and  carpenter  a  bit  ?  5: 

"  Ripe  for  it." 

"  Have  a  bit  of  cheese  ?  " 

"  If  I  might." 

And  the  way  she  brought  the  cheese  showed 


PROGRESS  OF  MR.   POLLY         119 

Mr.  Polly  that  the  business  was  settled  in  her 
mind. 

Before  Mr.  Polly  became  seized  and  possessed 
of  the  Potwell  Inn  he  met  with  and  fought  bitter 
battles  with  the  landlady's  murderous  nephew, 
who  constantly  extorted  money  from  her,  and 
terrified  everybody  in  the  place. 

Uncle  Jim  had  no  stomach  for  cold  water, 
and  Mr.  Polly  having  by  some  "  strategious  " 
moves  driven  him  to  the  riverside,  managed  to 
hurl  him  in  : 

"  Splash  !  Down  he  fell  backwards  into  a  froth- 
ing mass  of  water,  with  Mr.  Polly  jabbing  at  him. 
Under  the  water  he  turned  round,  and  came  up 
again,  as  if  in  flight  towards  the  middle  of  the 
river.  Directly  his  head  reappeared,  Mr.  Polly 
had  him  between  his  shoulders  and  under  again, 
bubbling  thickly.  A  hand  clutched  and 
disappeared. 

"  It  was  stupendous  !  Mr.  Polly  had  discovered 
the  heel  of  Achilles." 

This  story  of  Mr.  Polly  is  the  book  of  a  man 
to  whom  everything^ — everything  in  the  world — 
is  vividly  interesting,  the  book  of  a  man  who  can 
project  his  mind  into  just  any  odd  place,  plight 
or  predicament — arid  get  frolic  and  sport  out  of 
it.  The  private  war  between  Mr.  Polly  and 
Uncle  Jim  for  the  possession  of  the  Potwell  Inn 
is  rather  an  epic  matter — an  epic  of  our  everyday 
life.  Former  ages  lived  in  a  lather  of  apprehen- 
sion, knowing  that  death  was  always  stalking 


120  H.   G.   WELLS 

them  arid  might  swoop  on  them  at  any  moment ; 
in  the  dagger  of  the  thief;  in  the  unbridled 
pestilence ;  at  the  orders  of  the  cruel  overlord. 
But  we — that  is  why  Mr.  Polly's  joyous  battles 
with  the  landlady's  nephew  are  so  gorgeous 
— hang  on  the  chance  assassin.  And  when  the 
chance  assassin  happens  to  be  a  real  human  being 
like  Uncle  Jim,  quite  unlike  the  impossible  and 
sinister  fellows  in  the  modern  novels,  we  are 
mighty  glad.  And  Wells  has  treated  it  with  such 
breezy  freedom.  None  of  the  gloom  and  fierce 
indignation  of  Dostoieffsky ;  none  of  the 
hopelessness  of  Gissing,  nothing  of  the  Kipling 
touch — the  tricks  of  a  decorator  and  colourman 
in  words.  Only  just  a  story  of  a  great  fight  told 
with  a  sort  of  honest,  pleasant  straight- 
forwardness. 

After  having  vanquished  Uncle  Jim,  Mr.  Polly 
was  installed  "  for  ever  "  and  we  discover  him 
enthroned  in  a  kind  of  solitary  glory  as  the  odd 
man  and  thrower-out  of  the  Potwell  Inn.  Finally 
the  place  claims  him  utterly.  The  rooms  of  the 
old  inn  distil  and  drip  with  peace  and  repose ; 
the  sunsets  lull  Mr.  Polly  into  a  kind  of  wonderful 
state  of  exaltation.  We  leave  Mr.  Polly  and  the 
fat  woman  sitting  beside  one  of  the  little  green 
tables  near  the  river  on  a  serenely  luminous 
evening : 

"  Whenever  there's  signs  of  a  good  sunset, 
and  I'm  not  too  busy,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  "I'll 
come  and  sit  out  here." 


PROGRESS  OF  MR.    POLLY         121 

The  fat  woman  looked  at  him  with  eyes  in  which 
contentment  struggled  with  some  obscure 
reluctant  protest,  and  at  last  turned  them 
slowly  to  the  black  nettle  pagodas  against  the 
golden  sky. 

"  I  wish  we  could,"  she  said. 

"  I  will." 

The  fat  woman's  voice  sank  nearly  to  the  inaud- 
ible. 

"  Not  always,"  she  said. 

Mr.  Polly  was  some  time  before  he  replied. 

"  Come  here  always,  when  I'm  a  ghost,"  he 
replied. 

"  Spoil  the  place  for  others,"  said  the  fat 
woman,  abandoning  her  moral  solicitudes  for  a 
more  congenial  point  of  view. 

"  Not  my  sort  of  ghost  wouldn't,"  said  Mr. 
Polly,  emerging  from  another  long  pause.  "  I'd 
be  a  sort  of  diaphalous  feeling — just  mellowish 
and  warmish  like  .... 

They  remain  in  the  warm  twilight,  lost  in  a 
smooth,  still  tranquility.  They  are  not  so  much 
thinking  as  feeling  the  intense  wonderful  know- 
ledge of  a  great  affection  given  and  returned, 
a  friendship  that  is  too  mysterious  and  perfect 
for  words. 

The  progression  of  Mr.  Polly  suggests  the 
progression  of  Wells  in  some  respects.  I  hope 
this  does  not  sound  impertinent,  for  of  course, 
I  do  not  mean  that  Wells  is  a  bit  like  Polly 
intellectually.  But  Polly  is  romantic,  a  poet 


122  H.   G.   WELLS 

and  a  dreamer  in  the  same  way  that  Wells  is. 
There  are  poets  and  poets,  and  they  can  be 
divided  into  two  classes — one  group  that 
flourishes  on  the  world  within,  the  other  whose 
poetry  originates  from  knowledge  and  experience. 
One  kind  of  imagination  divines,  the  other  dis- 
covers after  much  probing.  One  has  pure 
perception ;  the  other  a  genius  for  deductions. 
Into  the  latter  class  both  Mr.  Polly  and  Wells 
must  be  introduced,  and  assuredly  they  will 
find  themselves  in  good  company — that  great 
band  who  have  felt  that  "  tearing  hunger  to  do 
things."  The  men  who  could  not  be  half- 
hearted. Rupert  Brooke  had  the  same  attitude 
to  life,  and  his  declaration  is  worth  quoting  : 

"  I  know  what  things  are  good ;  friendship 
and  work  and  conversation.  These  I  shall 
have."  He  tells  of  "  that  tearing  hunger  to  do 
and  do  and  do  things.  I  want  to  walk  1,000 
miles,  and  write  1,000  plays,  and  sing  1,000 
poems,  and  drink  1,000  pots  of  beer,  and  kiss 
1,000  girls,  and — oh,  a  million  things !  .  .  . 
The  spring  makes  me  almost  ill  with  excitement." 

Mr.  Sidney  Dark,  in  his  "  Outline  of  H.  G. 
Wells,"  says  that  the  ideas  of  Mr.  Polly  suggest 
a  succession  of  valuable  discussions  on  life.  His 
ideas  are  all  full  of  knowledge  and  experience. 
His  mind  is  keen  and  insistent,  but  just  fails  to 
be  analytical.  And  Wells  for  once  is  content 
to  leave  the  reader  to  explain  the  suggestions 
for  himself.  Polly  moved  Heaven  and  earth  in 


PROGRESS   OF  MR.   POLLY         123 

order  to  make  his  wife  happy  but  failed,  and  we 
get  the  fruits  of  his  eager  mind : 

"  There's  something  that  doesn't  mind  us," 
he  resumed  presently.  "  It  isn't  what  we  try  to 
get  that  we  get,  it  isn't  the  good  we  think  we  do 
is  good.  What  makes  us  happy  isn't  our  trying, 
what  makes  others  happy  isn't  our  trying. 
There's  a  sort  of  character  people  like,  and  stand 
up  for,  and  a  sort  they  won't.  You  got  to  work 
it  out,  and  take  the  consequences  .... 
Miriam  was  always  trying." 

Throughout  "Mr.  Polly"  Wells  allows  the 
characters  to  have  their  full  say  in  exactly  their 
own  way.  We  know  this  must  have  been  an 
exceedingly  difficult  task  for  the  author,  for  he 
has  a  tendency  to  leave  his  characters  in  the  cold, 
while  he  has  a  "  go  "  at  Mr.  Shaw,  the  Fabian 
Society,  Caesar,  Napoleon,  the  "  brass-hats " 
at  the  War  Office,  the  Greek  language  or  any  other 
pet  animosity.  This  philosophy  of  bitterness 
is  one  of  his  foibles. 

Mr.  E.  T.  Raymond  well  says    of    him*  : 

"  Wells  has  been  described  as  the  sworn  foe 
of  Things  as  They  Are.  But  not  less  remarkable 
is  his  detestation  of  Things  as  They  Were.  Things 
and  men — for  he  has  the  rather  rare  capacity 
(Macaulay  had  it  also  in  a  lesser  degree)  of  hating 
fiercely — as  if  they  still  lived  next  door — people 
whose  dust  has  for  ages  mingled  with  the  soil  of 
far-distant  lands. 

*  John  t? London's  Weekly,  January  28th,  1922 


124  H.   G.   WELLS 

"  In  the  matter  of  Mr.  Wells's  animosities 
a  thousand  years  are  but  as  a  day.  He  hates 
Constantine.  He  hates  Caesar  and  most  of  the 
Romans.  He  hates  Alexander.  He  detests 
Demosthenes  as  he  might  '  Pertinax '  to-day 
or  Count  Westarp  the  day  before  yesterday. 
The  only  '  old  'uns '  (to  quote  Mr.  Durdles) 
to  whom  he  is  any  way  partial  are  a  few  rather 
vague  Chinamen  and  Indians.  But  chiefly  he 
loathes  a  certain  kind  of  early-Christian  Father, 
represented  by  that  '  little,  red-haired,  busy, 
wirepulling  '  person,  whom  the  Church  honours 
as  Saint  Athanasius. 

"  This  animosity  is  the  more  remarkable — 
or  perhaps  the  less — because  Mr.  Wells  has  himself 
more  than  a  touch  of  Athanasius.  He  is  quite 
as  busy,  just  as  interested  in  words  and  ideas, 
not  more  tolerant,  and,  when  he  waxes  theological 
(as  in  '  The  Invisible  King '),  not  a  whit  more 
majestically  unintelligible.  Mr.  Wells  has  all  the 
dogmatism  of  Athanasius  :  he  only  lacks  the 
dogma." 

In  "  Mr.  Polly "  he  resists  all  temptations 
to  go  for  things  till  he  has  written  261  pages  out 
of  the  270.  Then  he  succumbs.  Mr.  Polly  thinks 
it  disagreeable  to  think  he  has  committed  arson, 
because  that  kind  of  thing  leads  to  the  "  lock- 
up." Otherwise  Polly  feels  no  remorse  about  it. 
Then  Wells  feels  that  the  reader  will  say  :  "  What 
a  blackguard  this  fellow  Polly  is  !  "  and  he  is 
immediately  waving  his  shillelagh  : 


PROGRESS   OF  MR.   POLLY         125 

"  Arson,  after  all,  is  an  artificial  crime.  Some 
crimes  are  crimes  in  themselves,  would  be  crimes 
without  any  law,  the  cruelties,  mockery,  the 
breaches  of  faith  that  astonish  and  wound,  but 
the  burning  of  things  is  in  itself  neither  good  nor 
bad.  A  large  number  of  houses  deserve  to  be 
burnt,  most  modern  furniture,  an  overwhelming 
majority  of  pictures  and  books — one  might  go 
on  for  some  time  with  the  list.  If  our  community 
was  collectively  anything  more  than  a  feeble 
idiot,  it  would  burn  most  of  London  and  Chicago, 
for  example,  and  build  sane  and  beautiful  cities 
in  the  place  of  these  pestilential  heaps  of  rotten 
private  property." 

This  tendency  to  go  for  things  is  certainly  a 
weakness  in  Wells — but  a  very  entertaining 
weakness ;  and  it  also  shows  a  symptom  of  a 
Heaven-sent  blessing,  inasmuch  that  he  is  able 
to  find  plenty  of  diversion  in  this  crooked,  this 
irritating,  this  gloriously  petulant  old  world  of 
ours.  The  diverse  ways  in  which  great  writers 
have  tuned  up  their  ideas  are  astonishing. 
Keats  "  doped "  himself  with  red  pepper. 
Dickens  donned  a  new  fancy  waistcoat. 
Stevenson  played  the  flute.  Browning  shuffled 
his  feet  till  he  wore  a  hole  in  the  carpet, 
Longfellow  walked  about  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  (Wells  is  fond  of  this  recreation,  too) 
Hawthorn  reads  old  newspapers;  Lord  de  Tabley — 
like  Mr.  Polly — was  always  ready  to  watch  sun- 
sets. Swinburne  was  always  longing  for  a  second 


126  H.   G.   WELLS 

glass  of  beer,  but  knew  that  it  would  send  him  to 
sleep.  De  Quincey  gulped  down  eight  thousand 
drops  of  laudanum — enough  to  poison,  say,  a 
whole  company  of  Grenadiers.  Dante  Gabriel 
Rossetti  took  sixty  grains  of  chloral  every  four 
hours.  Coleridge  wrote  "  Kubla  Khan  "  on  the 
juice  of  the  poppy.  Hawker  wrote  "  And  shall 
Trelawny  die  ?  "  on  opium.  Poe's  drunken  bouts 
were  responsible  for  "  The  Raven  "  and  "  The 
Bells."  The  delicate  poetry  of  Dowson  came 
from  drugs.  Defoe  and  Fielding  drew  a  massive, 
patient  energy  from  gout.  And  Wells — well,  he 
goes  out  under  the  stars  and  indulges  in  a  good 
"  hate." 

One  could  almost  be  led  to  assume  that  litera- 
ture is  the  outcome  of  eccentricity.  But  it  is 
not  so.  However,  men  and  women  with  an  abnor- 
mal desire  to  project  their  ideas  are  moved  to 
enter  a  profession  which,  after  all,  is  rather  a 
succession  of  sensations  than  an  occupation. 
The  sand  storm  and  tropical  rain  are  abnormal, 
but  surely  as  natural  as  the  English  shower  or 
the  sunshine.  They  are  simply  Nature's  methods 
of  putting  things  right.  So,  too,  with  our  greatest 
thinkers,  who  bring  through  strange  methods 
a  new  fragrance  from  the  world  invisible. 


CHAPTER  X 

A  STUDY  IN  THE  UN-MORAL 

IT  is  almost  impossible  to  prophesy  anything 
about  the  final  beliefs  of  Wells.  You  might 
say  that  he  will  die  a  fierce  Roman  Catholic, 
or  a  Mormon,  or  that  the  fairies  may  pluck 
him  by  the  hand  and  steal  him  away.  His 
progressions  have  taken  such  extraordinary 
directions  that  the  world  now  is  prepared  for 
anything  he  may  say  or  do.  And  whatever 
cause  he  makes  up  his  mind  to  champion  he  will 
take  a  vast  number  of  converts  with  him.  So 
skilled  is  he  in  the  science  of  reasoning  that 
you  feel  that  he  could  make  the  most  fantastic 
idea  seem  sane  and  moderate.  He  is  always 
trying  to  prove  that  black  is  white,  and  incident- 
ally justifying  his  arguments.  In  the  secret 
places  of  his  heart  lurks  an  odd  and  mystical 
love  of  self-vivisection,  and  dwelling  with  that 
desire  for  a  "  vermin  hunt  in  the  old  tenement  " 
is  the  hot  and  eager  resolve  of  defence.  This  is 
a  quality  which  makes  the  reader  break  and 
pause  and  wonder  where  he  stands  with  Wells. 
In  "  The  Secret  Places  of  the  Heart  "  he  is 
full  of  this  tricky,  gnomish  argumentativeness, 
but  his  arguments  fail  to  inspire.  We  feel  that 
the  middle-aged  amorist  of  the  story  (Sir 


127 


128  H.   G.    WELLS 

Richmond  Hardy)  is  not  a  man  who  really  matters 
at  all,  but  merely  a  shadow  of  a  certain  native 
of  Seville — Don  Juan  by  name.  When  we 
know  how  busy  Sir  Richmond  has  been  all 
his  life  seeking  love  like  an  area  sneak  and 
neglecting  the  opulence  of  true  manhood  which 
is  surely  associated  with  simple  things — with 
songs,  horses,  camp  fires  and  companionship 
with  other  men — because  a  fumbling  old  fool, 
Mother  Nature,  insists  on  a  new  love  affair  every 
month,  we  have  a  very  fair  picture  of  a  man 
following  love  as  a  pastime. 

The  whole  book  is  an  attempt  to  show  that 
all  love  is  full  of  monstrous  cruelty.  But 
nothing  rings  true  in  it.  The  love  of  Sir  Richmond 
is  cruel  and  brutish,  but  it  is  not  the  love  that 
the  world  knows — the  real,  unsmirched,  rare 
thing.  Let  him  speak  for  himself : 

"  I've  travelled  much.  I've  organised  great 
business  developments.  You  might  think  that 
my  time  had  been  fairly  well  filled  without 
much  philandering.  And  all  the  time,  all  the 
time,  I've  been — about  women*'— like  a  thirsty 

beast  looking  for  water Always. 

Always.  All  through  my  life." 

Wells  turns  Sir  Richmond  out  as  a  public- 
spirited,  honourable  man  caught  by  an  immense 
enthusiasm  for  his  work  on  the  Fuel  Commission. 
He  felt  that  if  he  could  only  stand  up  to  his 
job  he  could  beat  the  oil  profiteers  and  financial 
adventurers.  But  that  was  where  the  Devil 


A   STUDY  IN  THE   UN-MORAL      129 

came  in.  He  found  himself  growing  "  slack 

and  weak-willed  and  inaccurate 

Sloppy Indolent 

Vicious." 

His  work  has  almost  broken  him  and  he 
finds  his  way  to  Dr.  Martineau's  consulting 
room,  suffering  from  excessive  mental  and  moral 
fatigue. 

Dr.  Martineau  is  not  a  man  to  use  drugs — 
"  we  don't  know  how  to  use  drugs,"  he  objected 
— but  he  prescribes  a  casting  out  of  devils 
from  the  dark  alcoves  of  Sir  Richmond's  mind 
by  a  series  of  frank  talks  with  his  patient.  It  is 
to  be  three  weeks  of  self-vivisection  during 
which  Sir  Richmond  is  to  be  perfectly  honest 
with  himself  and  to  hide  nothing  from  the 
doctor.  Martineau  gives  a  passage  from  his 
unpublished  book  to  illustrate  the  state  of  mind 
in  which  he  finds  his  patient :  "  You  are  like 
someone  who  awakens  out  of  an  immemorial 
sleep  to  find  himself  in  a  vast  chamber,  in  a 
great  and  ancient  house  .  .  .  .  in  a  sun- 
less universe.  You  are  not  alone  in  it 

Your  leadership  is  disputed 

ancient  and  discarded  powers  and  purposes 
thrust  ambiguous  limbs  and  claws  suddenly 
out  of  the  darkness  into  the  light  of  your 
attention.  They  snatch  things  out  of  your  hand, 
trip  your  feet  and  jog  your  elbow.  .  .  The 
souls  of  apes,  reptiles  and  creeping  things 
haunt  the  passages  and  attics  and  cellars  of 

K 


130  H.   G.   WELLS 

this  living  house  in  which  your  consciousness 
has  awakened.  .  ." 

Martineau  suggests  a  holiday  jaunt  into  the 
west  of  England  by  motor  car,  and  also  an 
exploration  of  the  secret  places  of  Hardy's 
heart  at  the  same  time. 

Sir  Richmond  Hardy  stands  for  nothing  in 
Wells's  achievement  save  only  for  his  power  to 
create  an  illusion  of  reality  and  enthusiasm  by 
sheer  force  of  talking  his  way  through  brick 
walls.  He  is  not  a  creation,  and  there  is  no 
sign  that  there  is  anything  mystic  or  hidden 
in  his  whole  being.  In  his  boyhood  he  has 
worshipped  various  goddesses — first  the  white 
goddesses  at  the  Crystal  Palace,  and  later  the 
blowzy  goddesses  that  one  may  see  bathing 
at  Brighton  during  the  summer  months.  He 
talks  in  this  way  : 

"  The  women  of  my  adolescent  dreams  were 
stripped  and  strong  and  lovely.  They  were 
great  creatures.  They  came,  it  was  clearly 
traceable,  from  pictures,  sculpture — and  from 
definite  response  in  myself  to  their  beauty.  My 
mother  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  that. 
The  women  and  girls  about  me  were  fussy 
bunches  of  clothes  that  I  am  sure  I  never  even 
linked  with  that  dream  world  of  love  and 
beauty." 

Yet  we  may  note  the  skill  with  which  Wells 
has  concealed  his  failure.  This  book  may 
be  taken  as  a  symbol  of  the  distinction  between 


A  STUDY   IN  THE   UN-MORAL      131 

work  produced  in  a  hurry-skurry  ram-you- 
damn-you  fashion,  and  the  work  of  pure 
inspiration.  One  could  almost  imagine  that 
Wells  is  drawing  the  picture  of  some  very  dear 
friend — a  second  Sir  Richmond  Hardy — knowing 
all  the  time  that  he  is  a  weak  and  selfish  man 
and  yet  wishing  to  present  him  as  a  "  great 
irresponsible  genius."  Take,  for  example,  the 
pretence  that  Hardy  is  a  "  blend  of  Shelley 
and  Godwin  .  .  .  the  sort  of  man  who 
needs  women  to  complete  himself,  but  for 
whom  his  work  is  always  more  important."* 

Hardy  is  really  nothing  of  the  kind.  Wells 
only  assumes  it,  makes  one  or  two  of  the  other 
people  in  the  story  assume  it,  and  expects  his 
readers  to  swallow  his  gilded  pill  without  further 
question.  Hardy  is  unfaithful  to  his  wife  up 
hill  and  down  dale,  and  it  is  rather  hard  to 
forgive  him  in  the  face  of  her  trusting  and 
perplexed  loyalty  to  him.  He  is  also  in  a  slight 
entanglement,  at  the  time  of  the  motor  tour, 
with  an  intellectually  brilliant  woman,  Martin 
Leeds,  who  "  amused  him  immensely."  She 
was  clever,  helpless  and  headlong.  And  so  this 
witty,  handsome  genius,  whom  Hardy  impudently 
refers  to  as  "  a  mistress  of  mine,"  is  left  with  a 
child,  and  the  hero  refers  to  this  complication 
as  a  thing  which  "  just  happened " — one  of 
those  little  oversights  which  did  not  matter  one 
way  or  the  other. 

*  The  Weekly  Westminster  Gazette,  May  20th,  1922 


132  H.   G.   WELLS 

At  the  time  of  Hardy's  consultation  with  Dr. 
Martineau,  Martin  Leeds  has  got  "  something 
disfiguring,  something  nobody  else  could  ever 
have  or  think  of  having,  called  carbuncle. 
Carbuncle !  .  .  .  a  perfectly  aimless,  use- 
less, useless  illness — and  as  painful  as  it  can 
be,"  and  will  not  allow  Hardy  to  visit  her  or  the 
child.  This  is  an  excuse  for  Hardy  to  break 
out  in  an  explosive  and  self-indulgent  plea 
that  the  greater  the  faults  of  the  philanderer, 
the  greater  are  the  powers  given  to  him  to 
make  reparation  for  the  harm  that  is  done. 

"  Without  women  I  am  a  wasting  fever  of 
distressful  toil.  Without  them  there  is  no 
kindness  in  existence,  no  rest,  no  sort  of 
satisfaction." 

Martin  Leeds  was  separated  from  him,  but 
Hardy  could  not  live  on  the  deadly  level  of 
everyday  life  for  long.  He  craved  for  fluctua- 
tions, variety  and  vivid  impressions,  and  soon 
found  them  in  Miss  Grammont  —  Oil-king 
Grammont's  daughter — and  her  companion, 
Belinda  Scyffert.  V.  V.  Grammont  is  no  vain, 
trifling  woman,  but  she  has  tasted  of  the  bitter- 
sweetness  of  love  too,  not  so  deeply  as  Hardy, 
owing  to  her  youth.  Miss  Grammont  went  to 
France  with  an  American  hospital  and  was 
rather  alarmed  at  first  by  the  war-time  atmos- 
phere, which  to  say  the  least  was  rather  heedless 
of  Mrs.  Grundy.  "  There  was  death  every- 
where and  people  snatched  at  gratifications 


A   STUDY   IN   THE   UN-MORAL      133 

.  .  .  .  a  kind  of  wildness  got  into  the 
blood."  However,  she  met  one  of  her  lovers  in 
France — Caston,  "  a  very  rotten  sort  of  man  " 
who  made  "  to-morrow  we'll  die "  an  excuse 
for  planning  a  three  days'  stay  in  Paris  with 
her,  after  which  her  name  became  soiled  with 
scandal — which  was  not  to  be  removed.  V.  V. 
in  her  confidences  tells  Hardy  :  "  All  sorts  of 
people  know  about  it  ....  we  went 
very  far." 

Of  course  Hardy  falls  head  over  heels  in  love 
with  her,  and  wakes  out  of  an  extraordinary 
dream,  saying  :  "  There  is  no  other  marriage 
than  the  marriage  of  true  minds,"  which  is 
rather  a  useful  excuse  for  moonlight  philandering. 
He  sees  her  "  kind,  faintly  smiling  face  .  .  . 
My  dear  wife  and  mate "  he  is  saying,  and 
kissing  her  cool  lips. 

Hardy's  dream  is  converted  into  the  tangibility 
of  a  real  love  meeting  with  V.  V.  in  which  she 
declares  she  loves  him  with  all  her  heart.  The 
doctor  tries  to  prevent  Hardy  in  his  "  blind 
drive  to  get  hold  of  and  possess  "  V.  V.,  and  the 
pale  ghost  of  Martin  Leeds  haunts  him  :  "  You 
have  nothing  to  give  her  but  stolen  goods," 
she  says.  "  You  have  nothing  to  give  anyone 
personally  any  more.  .  .  ." 

Hardy  struggles  to  escape  from  his  passion 
for  V.  V.  and  comes  to  a  decision  that  there  is 
nothing  else  in  the  world  to  do  but  for  them 
to  part  at  once,  and  so  the  affair  ends. 


134  H.   G.    WELLS 

" And  I  will  go  back  to  dear  old 

Martin I'll  be  kind  to  her  and  tell 

her  her  carbuncle  scar  rather  becomes  her.  .  . 
And  in  a  little  while  I  shall  be  altogether  in 
love  with  her  again.  .  ." 

But  even  to  the  last  chapter  Sir  Richmond 
is  rather  interesting — but  only  interesting  by 
the  fact  that  he  hangs  desperately  to  the 
spontaneousness  of  Wells's  fountain  pen,  but 
the  reader  cannot  believe  that  his  love  for  V.  V. 
was  the  authentic  thing  in  spite  of  the  author's 
sudden  move  up  the  scale  of  excellence  in  a 
moonlight  scene  at  Chepstow. 

To  sum  the  matter  up,  Sir  Richmond  is  one 
of  a  not  very  rare  class  of  men  in  London  to-day 
— he  is  a  follower  of  girls.  It  is  all  nonsense 
to  say  that  such  men  are  as  other  men.  They 
are  a  race  apart.  Their  perverseness  is  inherent 
and  ancestral,  and  they  all  have  their  beginnings 
in  the  same  way  as  Sir  Richmond — "  with  a 
girl  who  runs  out  of  a  tent  .  .  .  dressed 
in  a  tight  bathing  dress  .  .  .  the  loveliest, 
most  shapely  thing.  .  ." 

The  Press  has  taken  Wells  to  task  very 
severely  over  the  "  secret  places  "  of  the  heart 
of  Sir  Richmond  Hardy  with  his  cool,  calculating, 
conscienceless  character.  Edith  Shackleton  asks 
"  Is  Mr.  Wells  a  Public  Danger  ?  "  (Daily  Sketch, 
May  15th,  1922)  :  Ml 

"  Are  creative,  brilliant  young  women  really 
only  good  for  the  temporary  slaking  of  the 


A   STUDY   IN   THE   UN-MORAL      135 

desires  of  inferior  men  ?  Should  we  be  improving 
the  world  by  strewing  it  with  a  generation  of 
children  who  don't  know  to  whom  they  belong, 
and  are  mere  nuisances  and  complications  to 
those  to  whom  they  have  '  just  happened  '  ? 

"  *  Desire,'  pleads  Sir  Richmond,  4  has  never 
been  the  chief  incentive  of  my  relations  with 
women.  Never.  So  far  as  I  can  analyse  the 
thing,  it  has  been  a  craving  for  a  particular  sort 
of  life-giving  companionship.' 

"  And  so  when  the  latest  love  has  to  leave  him 
he  murmurs  to  her  '  Heart's  delight  .  .  . 
Priestess  of  life  .  .  .  Divinity ' — and  then 
turns  his  car  round  and  rushes  off  to  Martin 
Leeds. 

"  He  can  analyse  it  and  call  it  by  what  con- 
ceit, soothing  names  he  likes,  but  to  decent 
men  and  women  this  is  not  the  recreative  love 
which  modern  writers  seem  to  think  they  have 
discovered  (but  which  William  Blake,  among 
others,  knew  something  about  some  generations 
ago).  It  is  the  beastliness  which  is  a  sort  of 
blasphemy,  since  it  degrades  one  human  being 
to  the  mere  use  of  another. 

"  Sir  Richmond  and  his  doctor  make  moral 
hash  of  Maidenhead  during  their  journey  to- 
gether. They  decide  that  the  hotel  is  primarily 
a  shelter  for  *  temporary  '  honeymooners,  that 
the  ruling  interests  of  the  place  are  c  love,  largely 
illicit,  and  persistent  drinking.' 

"  Even   if  this   is   true   of  Maidenhead   (and 


136  H.   G.   WELLS 

a  chorus  of  denial  has  already  arisen),  it  is  not 
true  that  the  Thames  is  smudged  in  this  way 
from  end  to  end. 

"  It  bears  men  who  are  something  more  than 
4  thirsty  beasts,'  men  who  can  even  look  on  their 
wives  with  interest  and  respect.  More  than 
that  it  bears  strenuous  boys  and  girls,  who 
have  not  '  just  happened,'  and  who  are  being 
reared  in  love  and  security. 

"  They  would  not  be  there,  those  boys  and 
girls,  if  philandering  were  the  main  occupation 
of  the  adult  nation.  We  shouldn't  be  able  to 
afford  them. 

"  Mr.  Wells  should  go  up  the  river  again." 

Another  critic  has  written  : 

"  After  perusing  this  latest  effusion  of  Wells, 
it  would  really  seem  that  he — not  alone  amongst 
our  modern  writers — would  have  us  believe 
that  this  good  world  of  ours  is  peopled  with 
folk  to  whom  Sex  is  the  all-pervading  motif  in 
life.  Does  Mr.  Wells  realize  that  to  the  vast 
majority  of  healthy,  clean-living  individuals 
it  is  only  an  incident,  and  to  most  a  romantic 
happy  incident  of  their  own  making,  in  the 
common  round  of  business  and  pleasure  that 
goes  to  make  up  their  lives  ?  Let  him,  as  Edith 
Shackleton  suggests,  c  go  up  the  river  again,' 
and  what  will  he  find :  Laughter,  fun  and 
glorious  exercise.  Doubtless,  as  evening  falls 
with  its  romantic  whispers  on  the  soft  river 
atmosphere,  Mother  Nature  is  responsible  for 


A   STUDY  IN   THE   UN-MORAL      137 

a  closer  community  between  man  and  maid, 
but  not  entirely  in  the  coarse  animal  sense  a 
study  of  Mr.  Wells's  latest  hero  would  suggest. 

"  No,  let  us  get  away  from  this  eternal 
4  consulting-room-cum-operating-theatre  '  aspect 
of  sex  matters  so  prevalent  under  the  lead  of 
Wells  and  others  in  our  current  literature  and  get 
back  to  the  fine  studies  of  life's  problems  we  were 
accustomed  to  enjoy  in  the  novels  of  Meredith, 
Dickens  and  Thackeray,  to  mention  only  a  few 
of  our  really  great  writers." 

The  Westminster  Gazette  in  its  issue  of  May 
29th,  1922,  under  the  heading  "  Don  Juan  again," 
said  : 

44  If  the  book  has  any  moral  at  all,  or  any 
meaning,  it  is  surely  that  a  sensuous  egotist  like 
Richmond  Hardy  only  turns  to  his  sham  scientific 
generalisations,  his  wild  historical  theories, 
because  he  has  failed  so  miserably  with  the  small, 
important  things.  There  is  something  suspect 
about  the  man  who  talks  of  Planets  and  Women 
and  Desire  ;  he  is  generally  the  man  who  cannot 
even  content  his  wife,  or  bring  up  his  children." 

Perhaps  there  is  more  of  poison  than  of  perfec- 
tion in  44  The  Secret  Places  of  the  Heart,"  and  one 
finds  an  echo  of  Wilde's  favourite  saying,  4'  The 
only  way  to  get  rid  of  temptation  is  to  yield  to 
it."  Anyway,  Sir  Richmond  is  one  of  those  men 
who  thinks  it's  too  bad  he  has  to  be  good,  but 
he  has  little  humour  in  him.  He  does  not  stride 
ahead  mightily ;  in  fact  we  must  confess  that  he 


138  H.   G.   WELLS 

is  a  loquacious  fellow  at  times.  He  is  not 
Rabelaisian  with  the  big  broad  laugh — a  man 
who  can  lie  down  with  pariahs,  and  yet  rise  out 
of  the  swill  and  husks  with  a  great  and  mighty 
arrogance.  But  we  must  not  confuse  the  artist 
with  the  subject  matter.  Wells  has  placed  Sir 
Richmond  before  us  as  a  character,  and  virtue 
or  wickedness  is  not  a  matter  for  discussion  here. 
He  sees  he  can  produce  a  certain  artistic  effect 
by  making  Sir  Richmond  a  man  who  thinks 
"  that  virtue  in  woman  is  a  tremendous  handi- 
cap," and  he  tries  to  produce  it. 

Sir  Richmond  will  be  to  each  reader  what  he  is 
himself. 


CHAPTER   XI 

"  THE  PASSIONATE  FRIENDS  " 

"  THE  Passionate  Friends  "  is  a  day-dream  ;  it 
is  rather  the  outline  of  a  life  that  Wells  would  have 
liked  to  have  passed  through  than  the  life' — 
splendid  enough  in  all  conscience^ — that  he  has 
lived.  The  malicious  spirit  of  caricature  is  not 
so  evident  in  this  book.  There  is  a  new  note  in 
it — a  difference.  His  not  too  compassionate 
nature  turns  to  imagining  instead  of  remembering 
past  bitterness,  and  this  is  where  the  poet 
conquers  the  man  with  a  grievance.  The  book 
pretends  to  be  a  father's  advice  to  a  son,  so 
that  he  may  be  understood  and  known  by  that 
son,  as  his  father  has  never  been  understood 
and  known  by  him. 

"  Why  must  we  all  repeat  things  done,  and 
come  again  very  bitterly  to  wisdom  our  fathers 
have  achieved  before  us  ?  My  grandfather  there 
should  have  left  me  something  better  than  the 
still  enigma  of  his  watching  face.  All  my  life 
so  far  has  gone  in  learning  very  painfully  what 
many  men  have  learnt  before  me ;  I  have  spent 
the  greater  part  of  forty  years  in  finding  a  sort  of 
purpose  for  the  uncertain  and  declining  decades 
that  remain.  Is  it  not  time  the  generations 
drew  together  and  helped  one  another  ?  Cannot 


139 


140  H.   G.   WELLS 

we  begin  now  to  make  a  better  use  of  the  experi- 
ences of  life  so  that  our  sons  may  not  waste 
themselves  so  much — cannot  we  gather  into 
books  that  men  may  read  in  an  hour  or  so  the 
gist  of  these  confused  and  multitudinous  realities 
of  the  individual  career  ?  ': 

The  story  of  love  that  is  friendship  and 
friendship  that  is  love  makes  the  theme  of  the 
book.  The  heroine,  Lady  Mary  Christian,  has  to 
make  her  choice  between  love  in  an  undignified 
poverty  for  which  all  her  training  has  unfitted 
her,  and  a  sterile  ease  and  magnificence  that  gives 
her  those  advantages  which  her  temperament 
and  education  require.  The  impecunious  lover  is 
Stephen  Stratton  (the  autobiographer  in  this 
case)  and  the  wealthy  suitor  is  Justin  whom  she 
marries.  Thus  she  chooses  the  millionaire 
because  on  her  own  confession  she  wanted  a  great 
house,  a  great  position,  and  space  and  freedom. 
Steve  Stratton  and  Mary  have  been  lovers  from 
childhood,  and  we  are  given  to  understand  from 
the  moment  of  their  first  frank  kisses  that  it  is 
the  real  thing — love,  immense,  steady,  enduring. 
Some  people  think  there  isn't  such  a  thing  as  the 
love  of  Mary  for  Stratton  which  Wells  has  weaved 
into  this  story.  There  is.  But  it's  rare,  as  rare 
as  a  perfect  greyhound  or  a  flawless  pearl. 
Such  love  as  that  of  Lady  Mary  must  always  be 
rare,  it's  too  singular  to  be  anything  but  the 
rarest ;  it's  the  most  intricate  thing  in  the  world. 
Think  of  it  for  a  moment.  Here  we  see  Lady 


THE   PASSIONATE   FRIENDS        141 

Mary  Christian  full  of  that  real  mysterious 
passion  for  Stratton,  but  stubbornly  refusing  to 
give  herself  to  his  keeping  for  fear  that  she  should 
become  "  just  usual  and  familiar  "  to  him  in  the 
end. 

Mary  says  :  "I  don't  want  to  become  some 
one's  certain  possession  ....  To  you 
least  of  all.  Don't  you  see  ?  I  want  to  be  wonder- 
ful to  you,  Stevenage,  more  than  to  any  one.  I 
want — I  want  always  to  make  your  heart  beat 
faster.  I  want  always  to  be  coming  to  you  with 
my  own  heart  beating  faster.  Always  and  always 
I  want  it  to  be  like  that." 

Steve  wanted  only  one  thing — the  woman  he 
loved,  the  woman  who  fitted  into  every  need  of 
his  being,  but  he  was  not  content  to  stay  at  home 
and  allow  his  imagination  to  torment  him  with 
thoughts  of  Justin  as  the  perpetual  privileged 
wooer.  Mary  having  made  her  choice,  finds 
herself  entirely  bankrupt  in  happiness,  and  is 
tempted  to  grasp  at  love  again  when  Steve  returns 

home  from  the  South  African  War  of  1899-1901. 
*  *  *  * 

About  this  time  Steve  is  taken  over  to 
Ridinghanger,  a  house  about  twelve  miles  from 
his  father's  home,  by  a  friend  with  a  motor-car. 
Here  he  is  attracted  by  Rachel  More — "  a  tall, 
slender,  brown  haired  "  girl  with  very  still,  deep 
dark  eyes. 

Steve  makes  no  secret  of  the  interest  he  finds 
in  Rachel,  and  her  parents  make  none  of  their 


142  H.   G.   WELLS 

entire  approval  of  him  as  a  suitor.  However, 
he  does  not  make  love  to  Rachel,  but  it  is  always 
in  his  mind  that  he  will  make  love  to  her.  They 
both  know,  deep  down  in  their  hearts,  that  they 
have  given  their  vows  without  actually  having 
made  any  allusion  to  such  a  thing. 

Of  course  Mary  and  Steve  meet  again  and  the 
old  desire  flames  up  still  more  fiercely.  Steve 
is  for  making  an  open  and  defiant  business  of 
their  love,  but  Mary  hesitates.  She  wishes  it  to 
be  secret.  She  wants  to  keep  Steve — perhaps 
she  is  moved  to  become  his  mistress  because  she 
wishes  to  keep  him.  But  she  also  wishes  to  keep 
everything  else  in  life,  her  freedom,  wealth  and 
social  rank.  And  the  cruelty  of  it  is  that  Mary 
really  believes  that  she  is  doing  the  right  thing. 
So  for  a  time  Steve  serves  the  secrecy  of  their 
transgressions — lies,  agrees  to  false  addresses, 
pretends  and  sinks  to  the  level  of  a  furtive,  slink- 
ing, half-hearted  wooer.  The  lovers  become,  in 
Wells's  words,  "  people  who  are  not  clean  and 
scandalous,  but  immoral  and  respectable." 
Steve  is  a  daylight  man,  and  his  whispering  love 
with  flushed  cheeks  is  not  what  he  wants.  It 
tortures  him.  Some  people  would  say  that  Mary 
got  on  his  nerves.  It's  a  good  enough  description. 
When  he  looks  into  Mary's  patient,  mysterious 
eyes  the  old  light  is  no  longer  there.  From  the 
moment  when  they  become  lovers  in  the  narrower 
meaning  of  the  word,  all  the  gold  and  magic  of 
their  love  turns  to  dross,  and  they  no  longer  have 


THE   PASSIONATE   FRIENDS        143 

the  real  beauty  and  delight  of  one  another. 
Discovery  of  their  secret  love  soon  follows. 

Steve  pays  a  visit  to  Lady  Mary  with  some 
book  as  a  pretext ;  the  servant  tells  him  that 
Lady  Justin  awaits  him  in  her  parlour.  He  walks 
in,  opening  the  door  softly,  and  as  she  sits  with 
her  back  to  him,  bends  to  kiss  her.  Justin,  her 
husband,  is  standing  on  the  terrace,  staring  at 
them. 

"  I  felt  this  was  going  on,"  says  Justin,  and 
turning  to  his  wife,  "  yet  somehow  it  seemed 
wrong  and  unnatural  to  think  such  a  thing  of 
you." 

After  the  discovery  of  their  hidden  love  Stephen 
thinks  there  is  only  one  thing  to  do.  He  declares 
that  Mary  is  his  wife  "  in  the  sight  of  God  "  and 
that  now  she  must  be  inevitably  his.  They  must 
escape  together.  But  his  valiant  demands  that 
she  must  face  the  world  with  him  alone  are 
repudiated  both  by  Mary  and  Justin,  her  husband. 
Mary  is  emphatic  on  the  point ;  and  makes  this 
extravagant  claim  : 

"  I  want  neither  of  you.  I  want  myself.  I'm 
not  a  thing.  I'm  a  human  being.  I'm  not  your 
thing,  Justin — nor  yours,  Stephen.  Yet  you 
want  to  quarrel  over  me — like  two  dogs  over  a 
bone.  I  am  going  to  stay  here — in  my  house  ! 
It's  my  home.  I  made  it.  Every  room  of  it  is 
full  of  me.  Here  I  am  !  " 

The  strain  of  these  troublous  days  is  too  much 
for  Mary  and  she  breaks  down  in  health. 


144  H.   G.    WELLS 

Stratton  meets  her  again  later,  and  sees  that  she 
is  really  ill  and  broken.  She  can  no  longer  think 
of  eloping  with  him.  The  edge  is  off  her  pluck. 
Besides,  Justin  has  changed  suddenly  and  feels 
cheated.  He  threatens  to  fling  Mary  and  Stratton 
"  into  the  ditch  together  "  unless  all  his  commands 
are  followed  with  passive  obedience.  Stratton 
finds  himself  up  against  the  law,  up  against 
social  tradition,  up  against  money,  and  realizes 
that  he  cannot  hope  to  fight  these  powerful 
factors  with  any  hope  of  success.  He  gives  in  to 
Justin's  terms,  which  required  that  he  would 
leave  England  for  three  years,  and  promise  not 

to  meet  nor  to  correspond  with  Mary  afterwards. 
*  *  *  * 

Wells  has  persistently  suggested  that  the  man 
does  not  suffer  in  the  same  degree  as  the  woman, 
and  here  we  have  one  more  instance.  When 
Stafford  is  thwarted  he  fills  his  life  with  a  great 
scheme  of  helping  people  to  a  better  under- 
standing by  spreading  and  collating  knowledge. 
He  becomes  a  publisher  of  the  best  literary 
productions  of  the  world  in  standardized  cheap 
editions.  That  is  his  escape  from  the  wickedness 
of  things,  but  Lady  Mary  is  left  socially 
and  economically  shackled.  And  incidentally 
Stafford's  escape  gives  Wells  a  chance  to  make 
a  wonderful  survey  of  what  may  be  called  the 
world  of  economics.  Very  vivid,  too,  is  his 
explanation  of  one  of  the  great  puzzles  of 
political  and  social  history — the  dominant 


THE   PASSIONATE   FRIENDS        145 

English  official  of  the  East.  In  the  earlier  chapters 
of  this  book  the  making  of  an  English  gentleman 
is  described.  We  have  every  phase  of  the  process 
told  with  a  realism  that  gives  one  in  a  flashlight 
a  sort  of  composite  picture  of  the  whole 
aristocratic  young  manhood  of  England.  Steve 
Stratton,  in  his  vicarage  home,  has  his  tutor — the 
Rev.  Mr.  Siddons :  "  Do  not  commit  your- 
self hastily  to  opinions,  Steve,  but  once  you  have 
done  so  t  stick '  to  them.  The  world  would 
far  rather  have  a  firm  man  wrong  than  a  weak 
man  hesitatingly  right."  "  Institutions  are  more 
important  than  views,"  "  Discursiveness  ruins 
a  man.  Choose  your  goal  and  press  to  it  "  were 
some  of  Mr.  Siddons'  pronouncements. 

Wells  is  writing  of  those  dead  little  days 
when  the  English  were  much  more  envious  of 
German  progress  than  they  were  anxious  to  put 
their  back  to  the  wall  and  contest  it.  It  was 
then  looked  upon  as  dishonest  for  any  other 
nation  to  copy  the  manufacture  of  our  solid 
and  sacred  English  goods.  Our  sons  were  taught 
that  any  Englishman  was  worth  a  round  half- 
dozen  Germans  in  a  fight,  and  read  a  philosophy 
that  was  more  like  the  defensive  plating  of  a 
battleship  than  a  form  of  pure  education — of 
this  protective  philosophy  Wells  has  written  : 

"  The  stuff  was  administered  with  a  mysterious 
gilding  of  Greek  and  reverence,  old  Hegel's 
monstrous  web  was  the  ultimate  modernity, 
and  Plato,  that  intellectual  journalist-artist, 

L 


146  H.   G.   WELLS 

that  bright,  restless  experimentalist  in  ideas, 
was,  as  it  were,  the  god  of  wisdom,  only  a  little 
less  omniscient  (and  on  the  whole  more  of  a 
scholar  and  a  gentleman)  than  the  God  of  fact." 

It  was  this  training  which  gave  length  without 
breadth  to  the  youthful  vision  which  made  the 
Lady  Mary  beg  of  her  lover  : 

"  Whatever  you  become,  you  promise  and 
swear  here  and  now  never  to  be  grey  and  grubby, 
never  to  be  humpy  and  snuffy,  never  to  be 
respectable  and  modest,  and  dull,  and  a  little 
fat — like  everybody." 

Then  Steve  is  sent  to  Harbury,  a  fine  old 
English  school  where  his  bracing-up,  hardening, 
and  encrusting  is  continued.  The  purpose  of 
the  school's  methods  was  to  leave  every  boy 
with  the  faith  :  "  We  were  Anglo-Saxons,  the 
elect  of  the  earth,  leading  the  world  in  social 
organisation,  in  science  and  economic  method. 
In  India  and  the  East  particularly  we  were 
the  apostles  of  even-handed  justice,  relentless 
veracity,  personal  cleanliness  and  modern 
efficiency." 

Wells  shows  us  the  type  of  men  this  school 
training  produces — men  of  mediocre  intelligence, 
yet  men  of  imagination  and  obstinate  will : 

"  I  think  we  are  an  imaginative  people  with 
an  imagination  at  once  gigantic,  heroic  and  shy, 
and  also  we  are  a  strangely  restrained  and 
disciplined  people  who  are  yet  neither  subdued 
nor  Subordinated.  These  are  flat  con- 


THE   PASSIONATE  FRIENDS        147 

tradictions  to  state,  and  yet  how  else  can  one 
explain  the  paradox  of  the  English  character, 
and  this  spectacle  of  a  handful  of  mute,  snobbish, 
not  obviously  clever  and  quite  obviously  ill- 
educated  men  holding  together  kingdoms,  tongues 
and  races,  three  hundred  millions  of  them,  in  a 
restless,  fermenting  peace  ?  " 

Some  very  shrewd  hits  are  made  regarding 
the  "  awfulness "  of  ill-fitting  clothing  which 
places  the  offender  outside  the  pale  of  any  common 
humanity.  At  least  that  is  the  opinion  pro- 
nounced by  Steve's  tutor.  To  be  sure,  the  con- 
sciousness of  having  a  suit  cut  by  one  of  the 
best  Bond  Street  tailors  lends  to  the  English 
youth  who  is  alive  to  good  and  bad  "  form  " 
a  peace  which  religion  cannot  give.  Perhaps 
much  of  the  sustaining  peace  that  comes  to 
people  in  church  may  be  due  to  their  best  clothes  ! 
There  is  really  much  to  be  said  in  favour  of  the 
strict  ritual  and  proper  methods  of  wearing 
clothes. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  book  Stratton  meets 
Rachel  again  at  Boppard  in  a  little  garden  under 
the  very  shadow  of  the  cathedral  at  Worms. 
Stratton  is  now  a  lonely  man  and  is  strongly 
moved  to  make  her  an  offer  of  marriage.  But 
with  the  pale  shadow  of  Mary  ever  haunting 
him  he  felt  that  it  was  all  but  impossible  to 
make  love  naturally  to  Rachel.  He  did  not  see 
how  he  could  even  write  a  love  letter  to  her. 
However,  he  is  passionately  anxious  not  to  lose 


148  H.   G.    WELLS 

her.  At  last  he  sends  her  an  offer  of  marriage  by 
cable — a  terse  business-like  message,  and 
receives  her  answer  in  the  single  word  "  Yes," 
thus  being  paid  back  in  his  own  coin. 

After  this  Stratton  searches  the  corners  of  his 
heart  and  finds  that  he  is  really  in  love  with 
Rachel  and  has  been  for  some  years.  But  he  has 
always  been  determined  to  be  fair  even  at  the 
price  of  losing  her.  Thus  he  would  never  use 
a  phrase  of  endearment  to  her  for  fear  it  should 
not  come  from  his  innermost  self.  But  it  was 
with  a  great  perplexity  that  he  discovered 
Mary  still  held  a  place  in  his  love — it  was  deep- 
rooted  and  eternally  green,  this  love  for  Mary. 

Stratton  hurries  home  to  Surrey  to  meet 
Rachel,  and  finds  her  waiting  for  him — bright- 
eyed  and  resolute — in  his  father's  study.  They 
are  married  in  the  little  church  at  Shere. 

One  morning  at  the  breakfast-table  Stratton 
picks  up  an  envelope  and  sees  the  half-forgotten 
and  infinitely  familiar  handwriting  of  Lady 

Mary  Justin The  sight  of  it  gives 

him  an  odd  mixture  of  sensations.  He  is  startled, 
disturbed,  almost  afraid.  His  love  for  Mary  has 
not  healed,  it  has  only  skinned  over.  It  needs 
but  such  a  touch  as  this  to  tell  him  how  little 
he  has  forgotten  her. 

In  this  letter  the  reader  gathers  that  Stratton 
and  Lady  Mary  both  have  children  of  their 
own  now,  but  the  main  point  of  the  letter  is  a 
passionate  declaration  by  Lady  Mary  that  she 


Sfierc    CfTurcfi 


150  H.   G.   WELLS 

is  still  true  to  Stratton — "  you  are  my  brother, 
Stephen,  and  my  friend  and  my  twin  and  the 
core  of  my  imagination ;  fifty  babies  cannot  alter 
that." 

The  last  meeting  between  Stephen  and  Lady 
Mary  takes  place  at  a  small  inn  at  Engstlen  Alp. 
It  is  quite  a  chance  meeting  arranged  by  the 
cruel  Fates. 

Lady  Mary  thinks  that  God  Himself  has  given 
them  this  one  chance  for  a  long  talk,  but  Stephen 
is  not  so  sure  of  God's  participation,  and  wishes 
to  leave  the  inn  immediately  to  save  any  odour 
of  scandal. 

Says  Lady  Mary :  "  You  take  the  good 
things  God  sends  you  as  I  do.  You  stay  and 
talk  with  me  now,  before  the  curtain  falls 
again.  .  .  .  Go  easy,  Stephen,  old  friend. 
.  .  .  My  dear,  my  dear !  .  .  .  .  Have 
you  forgotten  ?  Is  it  possible  for  you  to  go 
mute  with  so  much  that  we  can  say  ?  " 

Stephen  naturally  decides  to  stay,  and  they 
spend  the  rest  of  the  day  in  earnest  conversation. 
It  is  a  happy  and  blameless  meeting  for  them — 
a  cool,  steady  day  of  friendship  with  nothing 
at  the  end  of  it  to  be  regretted.  A  week  later 
a  telegram  came  from  Paris  : 

"  Come  back  at  once  to  London.  Justin  has 
been  told  of  our  meeting,  arid  is  resolved  upon 
divorce." 

Back  in  London  Stephen  came  face  to  face 
with  his  solicitor. 


THE   PASSIONATE  FRIENDS        151 

"  You  spent  the  night  in  adjacent  rooms," 

he  says  to  Stephen  drily "  Didn't 

you  know  ?  ': 

Stephen  tries  to  explain  that  he  met  Lady 
Mary  at  breakfast,  and  until  that  moment  he 
had  not  the  faintest  idea  of  her  being  at  Engstlen, 
much  less  at  the  inn. 

But  the  solicitor  is  an  unprincipled  wine- 
sodden  man  himself,  and  cannot  bring  himself 
to  believe  Stephen's  account  of  the  meeting. 
"  No  jury  on  earth  is  going  to  believe  you 
didn't  know,"  he  says.  "  Why,  no  man  on  earth 
is  going  to  believe  a  yarn  like  that." 

Indeed  it  was  only  too  self-evident  that  Justin 
would  have  no  difficulty  in  getting  a  divorce. 

Then  Mary  came  to  Stephen  and  told  him 
there  would  be  no  divorce.  At  first  it  does  not 
sink  into  his  mind  that  Mary  means  to  take 
her  own  life  in  order  to  stamp  out  the  disgrace 
of  a  public  examination  of  their  past  and 
present  friendship.  Later,  torn  by  intolerable 
distresses  and  anxiety,  he  races  to  the  house 
she  occupies  with  the  intention  of  making  a  last 
appeal  to  her  to  live — if  it  is  suicide  she  con- 
templates. But  he  arrives  too  late.  Lady 
Mary  has  paid  the  reckoning  with  her  own 
life. 


CHAPTER  XII 

WELLS  AMONG  THE  LITERARY  LIONS 

IT  will  perhaps  be  well  to  look  a  little  closely 
at  the  ideas  of  our  author  as  compared  with  the 
ideas  of  some  of  the  foremost  literary  men  of  his 
period.  This  will  help  us  to  estimate  not  so 
much  the  form  and  quality  of  his  literary 
cunning,  as  his  temperament  and  politics.  First 
of  all  a  comparison  with  Hilaire  Belloc  should 
bring  out  a  few  of  the  most  salient  points  in  the 
Wellsian  creed.  Like  Wells,  Belloc  finds  the 
present  conditions  of  the  civilized  world  intoler- 
able and  demands  a  fresh  beginning.  But  he 
differs  from  the  other  writer  in  this,  that  while 
he  thinks  that  science  narrows  rather  than 
increases  the  harmony  of  the  world,  Wells  thinks 
that  each  fresh  discovery  is  bringing  the  world 
slowly  forward  towards  a  dimly  discerned 
Utopia.  To  Belloc  each  fresh  discovery  only 
helps  to  separate  man  from  the  primal  needs  of 
his  nature.  He  would  endeavour  not  to  advance 
with  the  men  who  can  work  scientific  miracles, 
but  to  get  back  to  the  men  who  knew  that 
such  miracles  were  not  good  for  the  soul.  Per- 
haps, after  all,  Belloc's  Utopia  is  saner  and  more 
in  keeping  with  the  foolishness  and  ruggedness 
of  mankind.  Wells  has  set  up  the  ideal  of  a 


THE  LITERARY  LIONS  153 

finer  civilisation,  of  splendid  cities,  open  ways 
and  a  more  bountiful  life  than  that  in  which  men 
are  now  moiling  and  toiling ;  an  ideal  that  is 
far  too  perfect  for  even  a  super-man  like  Wells 
himself.  I  am  taking  him  on  his  own  valuation 
too.  In  the  preface  to  the  1914  edition  of 
"Anticipations,"  he  writes:  "  An  occasional  turn 
of  harshness  and  moments  of  leaping  ignorance 
are  in  the  blood  of  H.  G.  Wells  " — truly  traits 
of  character  which  would  be  most  calamitous  in 
the  smooth  working  of  his  World  State.  Wells 
always  fails  to  allow  for  the  divine  truculence  of 
mankind,  while  on  the  other  hand  Belloc  builds 
his  central  message  upon  it. 

"Thus,"  he  says  in  "The  Path  to  Rome," 
"  one  should  from  time  to  time  hunt  animals, 
or  at  the  very  least  shoot  at  a  mark  ;  one  should 
always  drink  some  kind  of  fermented  liquor 
with  one's  food — and  especially  deeply  on  great 
feast  days  ;  one  should  go  on  the  water  from 
time  to  time  ;  and  one  should  dance  on  occasions  ; 
and  one  should  sing  in  chorus.  For  all  these 
things  man  has  done  since  God  put  him  in  a 
garden  and  his  eyes  first  became  troubled  with 
a  soul." 

So  we  find  that  the  difference  between  the  two 
men  is  very  clear  and  separate.  In  Belloc's 
attitude  towards  religion  he  places  himself  still 
further  from  Wells.  To  Belloc  the  Catholic 
Church  is  the  perpetual  light  of  the  world — 
it  is  the  impregnable  fortress  of  the  ages, 


154  H.   G.   WELLS 

buttressed  about  with  all  great  and  noble  saints, 
against  which  the  futile  schemes  of  wicked  men 
are  dashed  to  nothingness.  To  him  the  faith 
is  his  mother,  his  father,  his  Aunt  Matilda  and 
his  very  lovable  Uncle  Bob  who  has  a  great 
capacity  for  beer  and  wine  and  chicken-pie ; 
it  is  his  wife  and  he  attacks  it  with  homely  chaff ; 
it  is  his  life  and  he  lives  for  it.  The  Catholic 
Church  is  irrevocable  and  unchangeable — the 
same  yesterday,  to-day,  and  for  evermore. 

To  Wells  this  is  just  as  senseless  as  the  fetish 
worship  of  the  African  negroes.  Some  interesting 
disclosures  at  a  Church  Guild  supper  in  1908 
will  give  some  idea  regarding  his  religious 
instincts. 

"  With  the  utmost  consistency,"  he  confessed, 
"  for  five  and  twenty  years  I  hated  the  Church 
of  England." 

Brought  up  a  son  of  the  Church,  he  began  at 
a  comparatively  early  age  to  develop  a  very 
considerable  scepticism  about  its  formulae.  He 
became  a  teacher  in  a  Church  of  England 
endowed  school,  and  was  later  informed  that 
if  he  wished  to  retain  the  post  he  must  be  con- 
firmed. The  choice  lay,  practically,  between 
earning  his  own  living  and  being  maintained  for 
a  time  by  a  hard-working  mother. 

"  The  result  was,"  he  said,  "  that  I  com- 
mitted the  first  humiliating  act  of  my  life.  I 
ate  doubt  and  was  confirmed' — and  lost  my 
personal  honour.  The  Church  thus  presented 


THE  LITERARY  LIONS  155 

itself  to  me  for  long  as  a  great  stupid  thing, 
which  was  stifling  my  conscience  and  intelligence. 
I  continued  to  hate  it,  somewhat  without  reason 
and  justice,  as  I  have  since  come  to  think." 

He  went  on  to  urge  that  the  Church  of  England 
should  make  far  greater  efforts  to  seize  and  hold 
the  doubts  that  attack  its  position,  instead  of, 
as  at  present,  simply  pushing  them  away  with 
its  flat  hands.  He  believed  that  it  might  be 
possible  for  a  broadened  Church,  a  Church  not 
afraid  of  intelligence  and  thought  and  lucid 
explanation,  so  to  alter  its  formulae  as  to  make 
it  possible  for  the  proud,  unruly,  inspired 
intelligence  of  those  growing  up  to  remain  within 
it,  as  more  or  less  difficult,  perhaps,  but 
essentially  faithful  servants. 

Wells,  in  short,  has  a  cheerful  contempt  for 
all  that  is  pedantic  and  magisterial  in  religion. 
In  the  same  way  he  is  lawless  and  contemptuous 
of  the  ancient  simplicity  of  our  fathers.  But 
Belloc  sees  no  hope  for  mankind  unless  we  return 
to  primal  things  : 

They  say  that  in  the  unchanging  place, 
Where  all  we  loved  is  always  dear, 

We  meet  our  morning  face  to  face, 

And  find  again  our  twentieth  year     .     . 

They  say  (and  I  am  glad  they  say), 

It  is  so  ;  and  it  may  be  so  : 
It  may  be  just  the  other  way, 

I  cannot  tell.     But  this  I  know  ! 

From  quiet  homes  and  first  beginning, 

Out  to  the  undiscovered  ends, 
There's  nothing  worth  the  wear  of  winning, 

But  laughter  and  the  love  of  friends. 


156  H.   G.   WELLS 

But  it  must  be  understood  that  Wells  is  no 
pretender  to  false  saintliness.  Belloc  says : 
"  Wine,  women,  song  and  religious  fervour." 
Wells  crosses  the  religious  fervour  out.  When 
the  world  pipes  to  him  he  is  willing  to  dance 
with  the  maddest,  even  with  G.  K.  Chesterton. 
There  is  quite  a  red-blooded  Rabelaisian  flavour 
in  "  The  New  Machiavelli,"  and  its  author  is 
certainly  determined  to  give  vice  a  chance  to 
parade  in  an  alluring  guise.  He  probably, 
however,  retorts  that  he  paints  vice  as  it  is — 
"  paints  the  thing  as  he  sees  it,"  as  Kipling 
would  say. 

"  When  we  form  that  League  of  Social 
Science  we  were  talking  about  "  (said  Remington's 
friend,  Willersley)  "  chastity  will  be  first  among 
the  virtues  prescribed."  "  I  shall  form  a  rival 
league,"  I  said,  a  little  damped.  "  I'm  hanged 
if  I  give  up  a  single  desire  in  me  until  I  know 
why." 

It  is  inevitable  that  a  comparison  should  be 
made  with  Rudyard  Kipling.  But  it  need  only 
be  a  very  brief  one,  and  at  that  only  a  com- 
parison of  literary  skill  of  the  two  writers.  The 
difference  in  their  politics  is  as  wide  as  the  world, 
and  there  is  no  need  to  comment  on  it.  With 
Wells  the  craft  of  letters  counts  for  very  little. 
Punctiliousness  in  literary  criticism  has  never 
worried  him  in  any  way.  Ford  Madox  Hueffer 
has  said  that  he  "  writes  without  the  help  of 
any  aesthetic  laws."  To  Henry  James  his  style 


THE   LITERARY  LIONS  157 

was  appalling,  and  he  remarked  "  its  weakness 
and  looseness,  the  utter  going  by  the  board  of 
every  self-respect  of  composition  and  expression." 
Mr.  Sidney  Dark  finds  many  passages  in  his 
work  that  are  "  unreal  and  sentimental,"* 
and  shows  how  he  not  infrequently  gives  himself 
away.  This  literary  clumsiness  is  a  demonstra- 
tion of  the  temperamental  difference  between 
Rudyard  Kipling  and  Wells.  Kipling  is  a  man  of 
letters  ;  Wells  is  a  man  of  ideas.  Kipling  lives 
by  the  word  alone — the  word  carefully  selected, 
polished  and  set,  and  is  a  mere  artist.  Wells  is 
more  concerned  with  the  projectile  than  with  the 
artistic  execution  of  the  gun  that  fires  it. 
Kipling  is  an  extremely  skilful  literary  jeweller, 
and  the  majority  of  people  who  read  his  books 
never  realize  this  fact.  Tales  which  appear  to 
come  out  of  the  very  soil  itself,  tales  which  are 
so  rich  and  loamy  that  one  is  tempted  to  forget 
that  Kipling  is  a  literary  man  at  all,  come  really 
out  of  Kipling's  book-lined,  perfectly  appointed 
study  at  Burwash.  The  expert  craftsman  in 
him  is  very  evident  in  such  a  story  as  "  Friendly 
Brook,"  in  which  he  works  out  a  theme  that  we 
are  vassals  of  the  land,  and  that  the  land  is 
very  wise  and  knows  those  who  are  worthy  and 
honest  of  intention.  A  drunken  blackguard 
from  London  makes  periodical  visits  to  a  small 
Sussex  farmer  in  order  to  extort  money  from 
him.  The  farmer  is  content  to  leave  the  "  land  " 

*  "  The  Outline  of  Well*  "  (Leonard  Parsons),  1922 


158  H.   G.   WELLS 

to  deal  with  this  blackmailer,  and  sure  enough 
a  brook  in  flood  clutches  at  "  Mary's  London 
father "  in  its  swishing  course  and  casts  him 
lifeless  back  to  land  again  : 

"  '  Well,  well !  Let  be  how  'twill,  the  brook  was 
a  good  friend  to  Jim.  I  see  it  now.  I  allus  did 
wonder  what  he  was  gettin'  at  when  he  said  that, 
when  I  talked  to  him  about  shiftin'  the  stack. 
'  You  dunno  everything'  he  ses.  '  The  brook's 
been  a  good  friend  to  me,'  he  ses,  'an'  if  she's 
minded  to  have  a  snatch  at  my  hay,  I  ain't  settin' 
out  to  withstand  her.'  " 

In  this  story  Kipling  attracted  the  reader's 
attention  by  literary  cunning,  by  style,  and  by 
imagination — a  combination  which  is  not  too 
often  met  with  in  a  Wells  story. 

At  first  blush  one  may  think  there  are  many 
points  of  resemblance  between  Wells  and  Bernard 
Shaw.  Indeed  there  are  a  great  number  of  points 
of  resemblance,  and  I  have  it  on  the  highest 
authority  that  both  writers  are  excessively  fond 
of  pickled  cabbage.  Shaw  has  told  me  too  that  he 
shares  Wells's  Socialist  principles,  and  is  favour- 
ably impressed  with  the  creative  effort  of  the 
Bolshevik  Government  just  as  Wells  has  been 
impressed. 

But  between  the  two  there  is  a  gateless  barrier. 
Shaw  is  a  mystic — the  very  antithesis  of  the  cut- 
and-dried  science  of  Wells.  All  Shaw's  references 
to  scientific  pretensions  are  full  of  derision.  Cecil 
Chesterton  has  written  : 


THE   LITERARY   LIONS  159 

"  He  once  proposed,  I  remember,  to  give  astron- 
omers in  their  calculation  of  distances  a  limit  of 
a  hundred  and  fifty  miles,  '  beyond  which  I 
refuse  to  credit  any  of  their  fairy-tales.' 
4  Impostor  for  impostor,'  he  added,  '  I  prefer  the 
mystic  to  the  scientist,  the  man  who  at  least 
has  the  decency  to  call  his  nonsense  a  mystery 
to  him  who  pretends  that  it  is  ascertained, 
weighed,  measured,  analysed  fact.' 

"  All  this  is  puzzling  to  the  modern  world.  It 
cannot  place  G.B.S.  It  finds  a  man  attacking 
current  religious  conceptions  and  puts  him  down 
as  a  '  rationalist.'  It  finds  a  man  attacking 
science  and  calls  him  a  l  reactionary  obscurant- 
ist.' It  finds  a  man  who  spares  neither  and  comes 
to  the  conclusion  that  he  must  be  a  humorist, 
and  so  dismisses  him — it  being  the  modern  view 
that  a  humorist  cannot  possess  a  soul  to  be  saved. 
But  the  Middle  Ages  would  have  understood. 
They  would  have  recognised  in  him  at  once  the 
then  quite  common  type  of  the  Heretical  Mystic. 
In  the  Thirteenth  Century,  Mr.  Shaw  would  not 
have  been  laughed  at.  He  would  have  been 
seriously,  respectfully  and  intelligently  burnt." 

Mr.  Sidney  Dark,  in  his  finished  and  stimulating 
"  Outline  of  H.  G.  Wells,"  has  also  directed  atten- 
tion to  several  other  fundamental  differences  be- 
tween Wells  and  Shaw.  First  he  points  out  that 
while  Wells  is  an  adventurer  always  striking  new 
trails,  Shaw  is  a  fixture.  Shaw  was  always  crafty 
and  always  wise,  it  is  true,  but  he  has  not  moved 


160  H.   G.   WELLS 

forward  with  the  times.  Shaw  is  not  an  improv- 
ing thinker,  and  he  has  not  yet  contrived  to  fit 
his  ideas  in  with  1914  circumstances.  Mr.  Dark 
very  fitly  brands  Shaw  as  a  philosophic  Bourbon. 
This  rather  recalls  the  dictum  of  Hazlitt  that  an 
improving  author  is  never  a  great  author.  But 
Wells  grows  every  day,  and  he  assuredly  has  the 
most  progressive  intelligence  of  all  the  men 
now  engaged  in  novel-writing.  The  war  has 
caused  him  to  think  out  everything  afresh,  while 
it  has  suggested  nothing  to  Shaw,  but  the  fact 
that  the  world  is  full  of  fools  just  as  he  has  always 
hinted. 

Shaw  is  a  Puritan.  Wells  loves  life  over-well ; 
is  a  lusty,  joyous,  wholesome  man  with  a  marked 
appreciation  of  the  Rabelaisian  spirit. 
Of  Shaw,  Cecil  Chesterton  has  written  : 
"  The  fact  is  that  Mr.  Shaw  is  and  always  has 
been,  as  he  himself  has  said,  a  Puritan.  He  has 
the  true  Puritan's  scorn  for  '  the  lust  of  the 
flesh  and  the  lust  of  the  eye  and  the  pride  of  life.' 
He  eats  no  meat.  He  drinks  no  wine.  He 
does  not  smoke.  He  aims  at  a  fierce  intellectual 
asceticism,  at  a  sort  of  virginity  of  the  senses. 
Hence,  I  think,  comes  that  half  uncanny  detach- 
ment which  at  once  attracts  and  repels  us.  His 
eyes  may  see  the  clearer  for  these  things,  but  they 
cut  him  off  from  much  that  is  vital  to  the  fellow- 
ship of  men." 


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CHAPTER  XIII 

"LOVE  AND  MR.  LEWISHAM" 

IN  the  year  1900  Wells  had  already  touched 
many  worlds  in  his  writings.  On  the  heels  of 
"  The  Invisible  Man,"  "  The  War  of  the  Worlds," 
"  When  the  Sleeper  Wakes  " — afterwards 
published  in  1911,  revised  and  altered,  as  "  The 
Sleeper  Awakes  " — and  "  Tales  of  Space  and 
Time "  came  his  novel  "  Love  and  Mr. 
Lewisham,"  and  here  again  he  introduces  the 
reader  to  a  world  almost  as  unknown  as  those 
he  previously  evolved  from  his  own  imagination. 
The  group  of  lively  human  figures  which  move 
in  the  central  two  hundred  pages  of  this  book 
belong  to  the  world  of  South  Kensington 
students,  and  into  that  strange  and  somewhat 
sordid  background  he  weaves  the  poetry  of  life 
and  the  beauty  of  human  love. 

In  the  first  chapter  we  are  introduced  to 
young  Mr.  Lewisham,  who  is  an  assistant  master 
in  the  Whortley  Proprietary  School,  with  wages 
of  forty  pounds  a  year,  out  of  which  he  has  to  pay 
fifteen  shillings  a  week  to  lodge  at  a  little  shop  in 
West  Street.  Lewisham  is  what  is  known  as  a 
nice  ambitious  young  man.  Motherly  old  ladies 
would  say,  "  What  a  nice  sincere  young  fellow  !  " 
In  reading  the  first  four  pages  of  the  book  the 


162 


MR.   LEWISHAM  163 

reader  cannot  fail  to  know  that  his  life  so  far  has 
been  blameless.  He  is  a  passable-looking 
youngster  of  eighteen,  with  pleasant  expression, 
and  a  quite  unnecessary  pair  of  glasses  on  a 
fairly  prominent  nose  (he  wears  these  to  hide 
his  youthful  looks,  that  discipline  may  be 
maintained.) 

At  this  time  Lewisham  is  bubbling  over  wth 
enthusiasm,  and  his  determination  to  gain 
knowledge  is  like  a  devouring  flame.  In  his 
"  Schema "  he  has  arranged  to  take  his  B.A. 
degree  at  the  London  University,  with  "  Hons. 
in  all  subjects  "  ;  a  gold  medal,  write  pamphlets 
in  the  Liberal  interest,  acquire  six  languages 
by  the  time  he  is  four-and-twenty.  The  author 
very  shrewdly  remarks  that  there  will  be 
modifications  of  this  "  Schema "  as  experience 
widens,  and  before  many  pages  are  turned  the 
modifications  are  very  much  in  evidence. 

Oho  !  little  did  we  know  of  Lewisham  when 
we  called  him  a  nice  quiet  young  man,  for 
soon  we  are  to  learn  that  he  is  just  as  head- 
strong, headlong  and  venturesome  as  it  is 
possible  for  a  lad  to  be.  One  Ethel — she  is  a 
figure  of  health  and  lightness  with  hazel  eyes — 
drifts  into  Lewisham's  careful  and  studious 
life,  and  in  a  very  short  time  makes  hay  of  the 
elaborate  arrangements  which  have  been  fore- 
named  on  the  "  Schema."  A  chance  meeting 
with  this  young  lady  in  an  avenue  of  ancient 
trees  in  Whortley  Park  leaves  Lewisham  with 


164  H.   G.   WELLS 

a  curious  restlessness,  which  crystallizes  out  in 
a  few  days  into  the  wonderful  discovery  that 
he  is  in  love.  And  it  is  also  to  be  remarked  that 
when  Lewisham  catches  a  glance  from  Ethel  in 
church  he  is  seized  with  an  absurd  and  powerful 
shyness,  so  that  even  the  word  "  LOVE  "  in  a 
simple  and  popular  hymn  is  enough  to  cause  a 
succession  of  blushes  to  chase  across  his  youthful 
features. 

Mr.  George  Bonover,  head-master  of  Whortley 
Grammar  School,  objects  very  strongly  to 
promiscuous  meetings  between  Ethel  and  his 
young  unmarried  junior  master,  and  makes 
his  distaste  for  such  intimacy  quite  clear  to 
Lewisham.  Moreover,  the  head-master  openly 
questions  him  about  Ethel,  and  with  a  curious 
spirit  of  opposition  Lewisham  tries  to  parry 
Bonover's  inquisitiveness  with  several  very 
deficient  lies. 

After  this  slight  friction  with  Bonover  things 
were  difficult,  but  not  impossible.  Bonover 
loomed  like  a  thunder-cloud  for  four  days,  and 
then  proffered  the  olive  branch  to  his  assistant 
master.  Asking  a  favour  was  the  autocratic 
way  Bonover  had  of  hinting  that  any  delinquency 
had  been  overlooked,  and  he  came  to  Lewisham 
on  a  certain  afternoon  with  a  request  that  he 
would  take  "  duty  "  in  the  cricket  field  instead 
of  Dunkerley,  the  senior  assistant  master.  Now 
it  so  happened  that  Lewisham  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  spend  a  wonderful  afternoon  with 


MR.   LEWISHAM  165 

Ethel,  and  he  bluntly  refused  to  oblige  his 
"  head  "  by  taking  on  extra  duty. 

Here  we  are  left  with  a  mental  picture  of 
Bonover  retreating  full  of  enraged  astonishment, 
and  Lewisham  standing  white  and  stiff,  full 
of  wonder  at  his  own  extraordinary  recklessness. 

Lewisham's  Saturday  afternoon  meeting  with 
Ethel  brought  them  near  to  conclusive  decisions. 
The  stiffness  of  their  former  encounters  altogether 
vanished  at  the  end  of  an  hour.  They  were  both 
in  a  highly  electrical  state,  finding  the  whole 
world  rose-coloured.  She  was  at  her  prettiest, 
and  didn't  care  for  anything  else  in  the  world. 
And  their  Saturday  afternoon  ramble  which 
should  have  terminated  at  four  o'clock  became  a 
scandalous  moonlight  love  affair. 

It  was  after  they  left  Immering  that  this 
ramble,  properly  speaking,  became  scandalous. 
"  The  sun  was  already  a  golden  ball  above  the 
blue  hills  in  the  west — it  turned  our  two  young 
people  into  little  figures  of  flame — and  yet, 
instead  of  going  homeVard,  they  took  the 
Wentworth  road  that  plunges  into  the  Forshaw 
Woods.  Behind  them  the  moon,  almost  full, 
hung  in  the  blue  sky  above  the  tree-tops,  ghostly 
and  indistinct,  and  slowly  gathered  to  itself  such 
light  as  the  setting  sun  left  for  it  in  the  sky." 

"  Going  out  of  Immering,  they  began  to  talk 
of  the  future.  And  for  the  very  young  lover 
there  is  no  future  but  the  immediate  future." 

When  at  last  the  lovers  came  down  the  long 


166  H.   G.   WELLS 

road  into  Whortley  it  was  quite  dark,  and 
Lewisham  realized  that  he  should  have  taken 
"  duty "  at  evening  preparation.  This  fact 
is  vividly  brought  home  to  him  by  the  sight  of 
Mr.  Bonover  (framed  and  glazed  by  the  gas-lit 
schoolroom  window)  acting  as  a  deputy  for  his 
aberrant  junior  master. 

Monday  dawned  coldly  and  clearly — "  a 
Herbert  Spencer  of  a  day,"  Wells  remarks — 
and  Lewisham  has  an  interview  with  Bonover 
in  which  he  receives  a  formal  intimation  that 
his  services  will  not  be  needed  after  the  end  of 
the  next  term. 

At  this  point  Ethel  leaves  Whortley  for  her 
home  in  London  and  the  reader  of  this  story, 
like  Lewisham,  hears  no  more  of  her  for  some 
years. 

After  this  there  is  an  interval  of  two  years  and 
a  half,  and  the  story  resumes  with  a  much 
maturer  Mr.  Lewisham — a  Socialist  and  a  man 
with  quite  a  modest  reputation  as  a  promising 
student  at  the  National  School  of  Science,  where 
he  has  been  fortunate  enough  to  obtain  free 
instruction  and  a  guinea  a  week. 

One  of  the  students  at  the  Normal  School  is  a 
grizzled  little  old  man,  reputed  to  be  rich,  and 
by  name  known  as  Lagune.  He  is  an  ardent 
spiritualist  and  it  comes  about  that  Lewisham 
and  his  sceptical  friend  Smithers  consent  to 
witness  a  spirit-raising  at  his  house.  At  the 
stance  Lewisham  meets  a  plausible  and  able 


H.  G.  WELLS,  1901 


168  H.   G.   WELLS 

rogue,  Chaffery  by  name.  As  a  fraudulent 
medium  Chaffery  is  hoodwinking  the  credulous 
Lagune  and  obtaining  considerable  money  for 
his  deceptions.  But  a  great  surprise  is  in  store 
for  Lewisham.  for  in  looking  across  the  table 
just  before  the  light  is  turned  out  for  the  joining 
of  hands  in  the  spirit  circle,  he  meets  eyes  which 
are  strangely  familiar.  It  was  Ethel !  "  The 
close  green  dress,  the  absence  of  a  hat,  and  a 
certain  loss  of  colour  made  her  seem  less  familiar, 
but  did  not  prevent  the  instant  recognition. 
And  there  was  recognition  in  her  eyes." 

"  Immediately  she  looked  away.  At  first 
his  only  emotion  was  surprise.  He  would  have 
spoken,  but  a  little  thing  robbed  him  of  speech. 
For  a  moment  he  was  unable  to  remember  her 
surname.  Moreover,  the  strangeness  of  his 
surroundings  made  him  undecided.  He  did  not 
know  what  was  the  proper  way  to  address  heri — 
and  he  still  kept  to  the  superstition  of  etiquette. 
Besides — to  speak  to  her  would  involve  a  general 
explanation  to  all  these  people.  .  .  . 

"  4  Just  leave  a  pin-point  of  gas,  Mr.  Smithers, 
please,'  said  Lagune,  and  suddenly  the  one  sur- 
viving jet  of  the  gas  chandelier  was  turned  down 
and  they  were  in  darkness.  The  moment  for 
recognition  had  passed." 

Lewisham  feels  a  sense  of  a  presence  hovering 
over  him  in  the  dark.  Then  something  faintly 
luminous  rises  slowly  in  the  air — a  ghostly  hand. 
Higher  and  higher  this  pallid  luminosity  rises 


MR.   LEWISHAM  169 

and  Lewisham's  attention  follows  it  slavishly. 
For  the  moment  he  forgets  even  about  his  amaz- 
ing meeting  with  Ethel.  Immediately  a 
tambourine  begins  to  dance  about  and  jangle 
without  the  help  of  any  human  agency,  and  a 
table  somewhere  beyond  the  medium  com- 
mences to  dance  a  jig. 

Suddenly  the  gas-light  flies  up  with  a  hiss, 
and  reveals  his  friend  Smithers,  one  hand  on  the 
gas  tap,  the  other  gripping  the  medium's  wrist, 
and  in  the  medium's  hand — the  incriminatory 
tambourine.  Not  far  away  from  the  medium  the 
luminous  hand  is  found — a  pneumatic  glove. 
Later  Lewisham  grasps  the  situation,  and  under- 
stands that  Ethel  has  been  aiding  the  medium  in 
his  deceptions.  His  suspicions  are  first  aroused 
by  the  furtive  way  in  which  she  attempted  to 
pick  up  the  shrivelled  rubber  hand  immediately 
the  light  is  turned  up. 

A  little  later  Lewisham  meets  Ethel  and 
learns  that  the  medium  is  her  step-father  and 
that  she  is  now  acting  as  typewriter  to  Lagune. 
The  girl  is  very  upset  over  Lewisham's  discovery 
that  she  has  been  more  or  less  implicated  in  such 
trickery,  and  begs  him  not  to  speak  to  her  again. 
Lewisham,  however,  insists  on  coming  forward 
as  her  rescuer  : 

"  '  Listen  to  me,'  said  Lewisham.  *  It  is  hard 
to  say  what  I  feel.  I  don't  know  myself  .  .  . 
But  I'm  not  going  to  lose  you  like  this.  I'm 
not  going  to  let  you  slip  a  second  time.  I  was 


170  H.   G.   WELLS 

awake  about  it  all  last  night.  I  don't  care  where 
you  are,  what  your  people  are,  nor  very  much 
whether  you've  kept  quite  clear  of  this  medium 
humbug.  I  don't.  You  will  in  future.  Anyhow, 
I've  had  a  day  and  night  to  think  it  over.  I  had 
to  come  and  try  to  find  you.  It's  you.  I've 
never  forgotten  you.  Never !  I'm  not  going  to  be 
sent  back  like  this.' ' 

Lewisham  has  resolution,  undoubted  energy, 
and  a  vision  that  is  more  advanced  than  that  of 
the  ordinary  student.  There  is  every  hope  that 
he  will  climb  to  the  top  of  the  ladder  at  the 
School  of  Science  until  his  second  meeting  with 
Ethel.  But  once  the  allurements  of  love  gain  the 
upper  hand  we  know  that  his  career  is  suspended, 
and  we  glean  in  every  line  that  Wells  is  drumming 
a  message  in  the  ears  of  his  readers.  The  message 
is  not  an  altogether  cheering  one — it  echoes  the 
burden  of  Clough's  poem,  "  Submit !  Submit !  " 
and  drives  one  to  remember  Kipling's  half-serious, 
half-mocking  verses  in  "  The  Story  of  the 
Gadsbys  "  and  the  brutal  frankness  of  its  refrain  : 
"  He  travels  the  fastest  who  travels  alone." 

Lewisham  and  Ethel  are  married  by  licence 
before  the  registrar  : 

"  The  little  old  gentleman  was  business-like 
but  kindly.  They  made  their  vows  to  him,  to  a 
little  black-bearded  clerk  and  a  lady  who  took 
off  an  apron  in  the  nether  part  of  the  building 
to  attend.  The  little  old  gentleman  made  no  long 
speeches.  '  You  are  young  people,'  he  said 


MR.   LEWISHAM  171 

slowly,  '  and  life  together  is  a  difficult  thing  .  . 
Be  kind  to  each  other.'  He  smiled  a  little  sadly, 
and  held  out  a  friendly  hand." 

Ethel's  eyes  glistened  and  she  found  she  could 
not  speak. 

The  little  old  gentleman's  warning  that  "  life 
together  is  a  difficult  thing  "  was  confirmed,  and 
written  in  enduring  letters  of  copper  and  brass 
in  the  first  few  months  of  their  married  life. 
Every  little  byway  of  married  life  had  its  tricky 
corner,  and  at  the  end  of  six  months  their  first 
serious  quarrel  was  registered.     A  certain  Miss 
Heydinger,  a  student  at  the  Normal  School  of 
Science  who  had  been  particularly  friendly  with 
Lewisham  during  his  first  years  in  London,  con- 
tinues to  write  to  him,  and  her  letters — purely 
letters  dealing  with  the  work  at  the  college — cause 
Ethel   to   harbour   strong   feelings   of  suspicion 
regarding    her    husband's     friendship     in     this 
direction.    This  forms  one  of  the  barbed  arrows 
of  discord,  and  after  some  very  heated  words 
with  Ethel,  Lewisham  comes  to  the  conclusion 
that  he  is  in  the  wrong  over  the  matter  and  decides 
to  send  her  a  huge  bunch  of  roses  as  a  kind  of 
peace  offering.     Lewisham  arrives  home  with  a 
beating  heart  and  expects  to  find  Ethel  excited 
and  the  roses  displayed.     But  the  roses  have 
miscarried  and  he  finds  her  white  and  jaded — 
looking   more   wretched   than   ever.      However, 
he  does  not  mention  the  flowers  as  he  wishes  them 
to  be  a  great  surprise  for  her,  and  faces  a  supper 


172  H.   G.   WELLS 

full  of  chilly  ceremonial  and  over-polite  remarks. 
However,  later  on,  Lewisham  feels  an  extra- 
ordinary persuasion  of  the  scent  of  roses  near  at 
hand,  and  has  to  look  out  in  the  hall,  to  convince 
himself  that  the  box  has  not  been  placed  there 
without  any  explanation,  but  there  is  no  bouquet 
or  scent  of  roses  in  the  passage.  On  his  return 
a  creamy  petal  near  the  dressing-table  attracts 
his  attention  and  on  lifting  the  valance  he  finds 
his  roses  crushed  together  on  the  floor. 

"  Why  on  earth  did  you  put  my  roses  here  ?  " 
he  asks. 

"  Your  roses  !  "  she  cried.  "  What !  Did 
you  send  those  roses  ?  ': 

More  misunderstandings  follow.  Ethel  admits 
that  she  has  hidden  the  roses  because  she  imagined 
they  were  sent  to  her  by  Baynes,  a  half-baked 
young  poet,  who  occasionally  sends  his  verses  to 
her  for  typing.  At  this  Lewisham  is  filled  with 
blind  unreasoning  rage  ;  he  refuses  to  listen  to 
Ethel's  explanations,  and  resolves  to  break  apart 
from  her. 

"  He  stood  up  resolutely.  He  kicked  the 
scattered  roses  out  of  his  way  and  dived  beneath 
the  bed  for  his  portmanteau.  Ethel  neither 
spoke  nor  moved,  but  remained  watching  his 
movements.  For  a  time  the  portmanteau  refused 
to  emerge,  and  he  marred  his  stern  resolution 
by  a  half  audible,  4  Come  here — damn  you  !  ' 
He  swung  it  into  the  living-room  and  returned 
for  his  box.  He  proposed  to  pack  in  that  room. 


MR.   LEWISHAM  173 

"  When  he  had  taken  all  his  personal  posses- 
sions out  of  the  bedroom,  he  closed  the  folding 
doors  with  an  air  of  finality.  He  knew  from  the 
sounds  that  followed  that  she  flung  herself  upon 
the  bed,  and  that  filled  him  with  grim  satis- 
faction." 

Then  came  the  waning  of  Lewisham's  rage. 
He  determined  he  would  sleep  that  night  in  a 
chair,  but  as  the  reader,  or  any  one  else  who  has 
faced  the  torture  of  such  a  method  of  repose 
will  readily  bear  witness,  this  is  easier  said  than 
done.  He  dozed  a  little.  Then  he  awoke  and 
wondered  why  everything  was  so  still. 

He  suddenly  felt  afraid,  and  sat  for  a  long  time 
trying  to  hear  some  movement  where  Ethel  was 
sleeping.  But  everything  was  as  still  as  death 
itself.  Why  was  everything  so  still  ?  He  was 
invaded  by  the  idea  that  something  dreadful 
had  happened.  Creeping  very  slowly  to  where 
Ethel  was  lying  half  undressed  on  the  bed,  he 
stood  watching  her  and  fearing  to  move.  He 
could  hear  nothing,  not  even  the  measured  sound 
of  her  breathing.  His  face  was  very  pinched 
and  white  as  he  stood  there.  Suppose1 — suppose 
the  girl  he  had  dragged  into  all  this  quagmire 
of  married  distress  should  have  petered  out, 
died  without  saying  a  word  one  way  or  the  other 
to  him.  There  was  something  about  her  face 
and  attitude  that  was  weird.  He  moved  over  to 
her  quickly  now,  no  longer  heeding  the  sounds 
he  made. 


174  H.   G.   WELLS 

With  great  relief  he  found  that  she  was  not 
dead  as  he  had  foolishly  imagined,  and  after  a 
few  moments  she  stirred  and  murmured.  As 
Lewisham  looked  upon  her  white  tear-stained  face 
the  girl  seemed  intolerably  pitiful  to  him  and 
everything  but  how  he  has  wounded  her  that 
day  is  banished  from  his  memory. 

He  forgot  that  they  were  going  to  part  for 
ever.  He  felt  nothing  but  a  great  joy  that  she 
could  stir  and  speak.  His  jealousy  flashed  out 
of  being.  He  dropped  upon  his  knees. 

"  '  Dear,'  he  whispered.  '  Is  it  all  right  ? 

I I  could  not  hear  you  breathing. 

I  could  not  hear  you  breathing.' 

44  She  started  and  was  awake. 

44  4 1  was  in  the  other  room,'  said  Lewisham 
in  a  voice  full  of  emotion.  4  Everything  was  so 
quiet.  I  was  afraid — I  did  not  know  what  had 
happened.  Dear — Ethel  dear.  Is  it  all  right  ?  ' 

44  She  sat  up  quickly  and  scrutinised  his  face. 
4  Oh  !  let  me  tell  you,'  she  wailed.  4  Do  let  me 
tell  you.  It's  nothing.  It's  nothing.  You 
wouldn't  hear  me.  You  wouldn't  hear  me.  It 
wasn't  fair — before  you  had  heard  me.  .  .  .' 

44  His  arms  tightened  about  her.  4  Dear,'  he 
said,  4 1  knew  it  was  nothing.  I  knew.  I  knew.'  ' 

And  so  the  novel  ends  on  this  note,  and  we 
take  leave  of  Lewisham  and  Ethel  happy  once 
again,  but  facing  a  world  bristling  with  troubles. 
Amongst  Lewisham's  additional  responsibilities 
we  must  not  forget  that  his  mother-in-law 


MR.   LEWISHAM  175 

has  unexpectedly  become  dependent  upon  him, 
for  the  fraudulent  Chaff ery  has  "  skedaddled 
after  having  induced  Lagune  when  hypnotised 
to  sign  a  blank  cheque  as  an  '  autograph.'  ' 

Lewisham,  until  the  last  chapter  of  the  book 
is  reached,  shares  with  the  Hooper-Kipps-Polly 
type  of  Wells  creation  a  tendency  to  sudden 
passions  and  fits  of  temper,  to  outbursts  of 
foolish  rage  against  the  obvious  petty  incon- 
veniences of  life.  This  is  a  common  tendency  on 
the  part  of  many  of  the  important  male  characters 
in  Wells's  books.  But  we  get  a  gleam  of  light  in 
our  last  glimpse  of  Lewisham,  and  that  is  his 
temptation  to  laugh  in  the  face  of  all  trouble. 
Here  he  is  with  a  runaway  swindler  for  a  father- 
in-law,  a  penniless  mother-in-law,  a  grimy  grace- 
less house  at  Clapham  for  home,  and  between  the 
devil  and  the  wide,  wide  sea  in  money  matters. 
Does  he  rage  and  fret  and  fume  ?  Not  he.  The 
thing  takes  him  suddenly  as  being  funny.  He 
is  tempted  to  laugh  at  it  all.  There  are  tempta- 
tions that  require  all  of  one's  strength  to  yield 
to,  and  Lewisham  pulls  himself  together  and 
yields  to  merriment. 

Wells  remarks  : 

"  His  laugh  marked  an  epoch.  Never  before 
had  Lewisham  laughed  at  any  fix  in  which  he 
had  found  himself.  The  enormous  seriousness 
of  adolescence  was  coming  to  an  end  ;  the  days 
of  his  growing  were  numbered.  It  was  a  laugh 
of  infinite  admissions." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

"  KIPPS  " 

"  KIPPS  "  brings  us  directly  into  touch  with 
one  of  the  most  distinctive  features  of  Wells's 
method.  He  has  not  been  able  to  resist  a 
realistic  touch  in  some  of  his  early  novels,  which 
is  only  too  obviously  a  rendering  of  his  own 
biography  in  which  he  seeks  to  pay  back  old 
scores  for  days  of  drudgery  in  "  the  drapery  " 
at  Southsea.  "  Kipps  "  is  an  indictment  drawn 
with  perfect  skill  and  crushing  acrimony  against 
persons  and  institutions  that  had  irritated  him 
in  his  early  passage  through  life. 

Kipps,  the  hero,  who  gives  his  name  to  the 
novel,  has  the  good  fortune  to  come  into  the 
comparative  radiance  of  twelve  hundred  a  year, 
while  still  serving  as  a  draper's  drudge  in  a 
Folkestone  emporium.  It  must  have  been  a 
great  release  to  him,  and  more  than  enough  to 
turn  the  head  of  such  a  "  simple  soul,"  especially 
when  we  come  to  consider  the  wolfish  Mr. 
Shalford,  his  employer  : 

"  He  was  an  irascible,  energetic  little  man 
with  hairy  hands,  for  the  most  part  under  his 
coat-tails,  a  long,  shiny,  bald  head,  a  pointed 
aquiline  nose  a  little  askew,  and  a  neatly-trimmed 
beard.  He  walked  lightly  and  with  a  confident 


176 


KIPPS  177 

jerk,  and  he  was  given  to  humming.  He  had 
added  to  exceptional  business  4  push '  bank- 
ruptcy under  the  old  dispensation,  and  judicious 
matrimony.  His  establishment  was  now  one 
of  the  most  considerable  in  Folkestone,  and  he 
insisted  on  every  inch  of  frontage  by  alternate 
stripes  of  green  and  yellow  down  the  houses 
over  the  shops.  His  shops  were  numbered  3,  5, 
and  7  on  the  street,  and  on  his  bill-heads  3  to  7. 
He  encountered  the  abashed  and  awe-stricken 
Kipps  with  the  praises  of  his  system  and  him- 
self. He  spread  himself  out  behind  his  desk  with 
a  grip  on  the  lapel  of  his  coat,  and  made  Kipps 
a  sort  of  speech.  '  We  expect  y'r  to  work,  y'r 
know,  and  we  expect  y'r  to  study  our  interests,' 
explained  Mr.  Shalford,  in  the  regal  and  com- 
mercial plural.  '  Our  system  here  is  the  best 
system  y'r  could  have.  I  made  it,  and  I  ought 
to  know.  I  began  at  the  very  bottom  of  the 
ladder  when  I  was  fourteen,  and  there  isn't  a 
step  in  it  I  don't  know.  Not  a  step.  Mr.  Booch 
in  the  desk  will  give  y'r  the  card  of  rules  and 
fines.  Jest  wait  a  minute.'  He  pretended  to  be 
busy  with  some  dusty  memoranda  under  a  paper- 
weight, while  Kipps  stood  in  a  sort  of  paralysis 
of  awe  regarding  his  new  master's  oval  baldness. 
'  Two  thous'n  three  forty-seven  pounds,' 
whispered  Mr.  Shalford  audibly,  feigning  forget- 
fulness  of  Kipps.  Clearly  a  place  of  great 
transactions  !  " 

There   can   be   little   doubt   that   the   son   of 

If 


178  H.   G.   WELLS 

Joseph  Wells,  the  professional  cricketer,  found 
himself  in  a  prison  which  was  little  better  than 
the  blacking  manufactory  in  which  Charles 
Dickens  received  his  early  training.  But  Wells, 
the  man  with  a  grievance,  is  much  more  effective 
than  Dickens.  In  fact  he  is  always  effective ; 
indeed  he  is  effective  even  when  he  cannot  claim 
to  be  quite  free  from  faults  himself.  But  to 
return  to  the  education  of  Kipps.  What  is  to  be 
done  with  this  h-less  aspirant  to  higher  things  ? 
Many  are  willing  to  help,  but  the  central  figure 
of  all  these  good  Samaritans  is  Mr.  Chester  Coote. 
He  it  is  who  offers  to  be  the  guide  in  this  unknown 
world  : 

"  Coote  displayed  all  his  teeth  in  a  kindly, 
tremulous    smile,    and    his    eyes    were    shiny. 
*  Shake  'ands,'  said  Kipps,  deeply  moved  ;    and 
he   and   Coote   rose   and   clasped   with   mutual 
emotion. 

"  4  It's  reely  too  good  of  you,'  said  Kipps. 

"  '  Whatever  I  can  do  I  will,'  said  Coote. 

"  And  so  their  compact  was  made.  From 
that  moment  they  were  friends — intimate,  con- 
fidential, high- thinking,  sotto-voce  friends.  All  the 
rest  of  their  talk  (and  it  inclined  to  be  inter- 
minable) was  an  expansion  of  that.  For  that 
night  Kipps  wallowed  in  self-abandonment  and 
Coote  behaved  as  one  who  had  received  a  great 
trust.  That  sinister  passion  for  pedagogy  to 
which  the  Good-Intentioned  are  so  fatally  liable, 
that  passion  of  infinite  presumption  that  permits 


KIPPS  179 

one  weak  human  being  to  arrogate  the  direction 
of  another  weak  human  being's  affairs,  had 
Coote  in  its  grip.  He  was  to  be  a  sort  of  lay 
confessor  and  director  of  Kipps  ;  he  was  to  help 
Kipps  in  a  thousand  ways  ;  he  was,  in  fact,  to 
chaperon  Kipps  into  the  higher  and  better  sort 
of  English  life.  He  was  to  tell  him  his  faults, 
advise  him  about  the  right  thing  to  do 

"  4  It's  all  these  things  I  don't  know,'  said 
Kipps.  '  I  don't  know,  for  instance,  what's 
the  right  sort  of  dress  to  wear.  I  don't  even  know 
if  I'm  dressed  right  now ' 

"  c  All  these  things ' — Coote  stuck  out  his 
lips  and  nodded  rapidly  to  show  he  understood — 
*  trust  me  for  that,'  he  said,  4  trust  me.'  : 

Kipps  did  trust  Mr.  Coote,  the  middle-class 
Petronius  before  whom  all  the  bloodless 
"  literary  people  "  of  Folkestone  bowed  humbly. 
But  somehow  he  felt  very  uneasy  about  himself. 
He  felt  that  he  would  never  be  able  to  acquire 
the  easy  and  contemptuous  bearing  of  such  a 
fellow  as  Chitterlow.  The  reader  must  be  in- 
formed that  Chitterlow  is  a  chance  met  friend  of 
Kipps',  a  "  nacter  chap,"  who  when  reproved  by 
Mrs.  Chitterlow  for  taking  a  potato  with  a  jab  of 
his  fork,  answered,  "  Well,  you  shouldn't  have 
married  a  man  of  Genius." 

Presently  Woman,  the  saviour  and  consoler, 
steals  into  this  nightmare  life.  Kipps  first  meets 
this  creature  of  compact  smugness  and  sweet- 
ness in  the  old  days  of  the  emporium  and  had 
accounted  her  as  something  wonderful  and  dis- 


180  H.   G.   WELLS 

tant.  She  is  Miss  Helen  Walsingham,  and  Coote 
approves  of  her.  After  all,  she  is  not  well  off, 
and  so  she  consents  to  swallow  Kipps  and  his 
little  fortune. 

The  engagement  developed  along  the  same  lines 
of  education  as  Coote's  friendship.  Young 
Walsingham  showed  Kipps  how  to  shine  in  the 
art  of  "  Swanking,"  "  how  to  buy  the  more 
theatrical  weeklies  for  consumption  in  the  train, 
how  to  buy  and  what  to  buy  in  the  way  of 
cigarettes  with  gold  tips  and  shilling  cigars, 
and  how  to  order  hock  for  lunch  and  sparkling 
moselle  for  dinner,  how  to  calculate  the  fare  of  a 
hansom  cab — penny  a  minute  while  he  goes — how 
to  look  intelligently  at  an  hotel  tape,  and  how  to 
sit  in  a  train  like  a  thoughtful  man  instead  of 
talking  like  a  fool  and  giving  yourself  away." 
Mrs.  Walsingham  helped  too  as  much  as  possible 
to  lead  young  Kipps  into  the  paths  of  sugar-and- 
water  gentility.  "  She  would  tell  him  anecdotes 
of  nice  things  done,  of  gentlemanly  feats  of  grace- 
ful consideration ;  she  would  record  her  neat 
observations  of  people  in  trains  and  omnibuses ; 
how,  for  example,  a  man  had  passed  her  change 
to  the  conductor,  4  quite  a  common  man  he 
looked,'  but  he  had  lifted  his  hat."  Coote's 
sister  also  joined  in  this  persecution  of  civilisa- 
tion. From  her  he  learned  to  talk  about  pictures 
to  Mrs.  Walsingham  :  "  That's  rather  nace. 
That  lill'  thing.  There." 

Kipps  is  on  the  high  road  to  snobbery.  And 
that  is  about  all  there  is  to  it.  He  gathered 


KIPPS  181 

that  with  his  marriage  his  name  would  become 
"  Cuyps  " — the  homely  name  of  Kipps  being 
too  vulgar  for  the  Walsinghams. 

"  It'll  be  rum  at  first,"  said  Kipps.  But 
Kipps  never  realized  how  "  rum  "  it  would  have 
really  been  if  the  net  of  the  Walsinghams  had  not 
have  just  allowed  him  to  slip  through.  But 
Kipps  was  destined  to  break  away  from  it  all. 
A  housemaid  whom  he  had  loved  sheepishly  in 
his  old  unsophisticated  days  floats  before  his 
vision  and  he  calls  out  for  his  own  people,  go- 
as-you-please  table  manners  with  winkles  and 
thick  bread  and  butter. 

But  first  there  came  a  little  flutter  of  freedom, 
and  Kipps  passes  on  to  his  third  world.  "  There 
were,  no  doubt,  other  worlds,  but  Kipps  knew 
only  these  three  :  firstly,  New  Romney  and  the 
Emporium,  constituting  his  primary  world,  his 
world  of  origin,  which  also  contained  Ann ; 
secondly,  the  world  of  culture  and  refinement, 
the  world  of  which  Coote  was  chaperon,  and  into 
which  Kipps  was  presently  to  marry,  a  world, 
it  was  fast  becoming  evident,  absolutely  in- 
compatible with  the  first ;  and  thirdly,  a  world 
still  to  a  large  extent  unexplored,  London." 

Kipps  endures  the  splendour  of  the  Royal 
Grand  Hotel  for  three  days,  but  in  the  end  the 
shackles  of  its  pomp  and  ceremony  defeat  him. 
Besides,  the  waiters  and  porters  there  become 
quite  facetious  when  he  enters  the  dining  room 
in  evening  dress  and  purple  cloth  slippers  with 
golden  marigolds.  He  meets  a  Socialist  who 


182  H.   G.   WELLS 

declaims  fiercely  about  the  existing  state  of  things, 
and  hints  darkly  at  the  lean  years  to  come.  It 
was  all  very  interesting,  and  even  exciting,  but  it 
was  not  that  which  made  a  Socialist  of  Arthur 
Kipps.  It  was  a  dinner  at  the  Royal  Grand 
Hotel  that  worked  the  final  mischief,  under- 
mining all  the  sympathetic  wisdom  of  Chester 
Coote  : 

"  It  was  over  the  vol  au  vent  that  he  began 
to  go  to  pieces.  He  took  a  knife  to  it ;  then  saw 
the  lady  in  pink  was  using  a  fork  only,  and 
hastily  put  down  his  knife,  with  a  considerable 
amount  of  rich  creaminess  on  the  blade,  upon 
the  cloth.  Then  he  found  that  a  fork  in  his 
inexperienced  hand  was  an  instrument  of  chase 
rather  than  capture.  His  ears  became  violently 
red,  and  then  he  looked  up  to  discover  the  lady 
in  pink  glancing  at  him,  and  then  smiling,  as 
she  spoke  to  the  man  beside  her. 

"  He  hated  the  lady  in  pink  very  much. 

"  He  stabbed  a  large  piece  of  the  vol  au  vent 
at  last,  and  was  too  glad  of  his  luck  not  to  make 
a  mouthful  of  it.  But  it  was  an  extensive 
fragment,  and  pieces  escaped  him.  Shirt  front ! 
4  Desh  it !  '  he  said,  and  had  resort  to  his  spoon. 
His  waiter  went  and  spoke  to  two  other  waiters, 
no  doubt  jeering  at  him.  He  became  very 
fierce  suddenly.  '  'Ere  !  '  he  said,  gesticulating  ; 
and  then,  '  Clear  this  away  !  ' 

"  The  entire  dinner-party  on  his  right,  the  party 
of  the  ladies  in  advanced  evening-dress,  looked 
at  him  ....  He  felt  that  every  one  was 


KIPPS  183 

catching  him,  and  making  fun  at  him,  and  the 
injustice  of  this  angered  him.  After  all,  they  had 
had  every  advantage  he  hadn't.  And  then, 
when  they  had  got  him  there  doing  his  best, 
what  must  they  do  but  glance  and  sneer  and 
nudge  one  another.  He  tried  to  catch  them  at  it, 
and  then  took  refuge  in  a  second  glass  of  wine. 

"Suddenly  and  extraordinarily  he  found  himself 
a  Socialist.  He  did  not  care  how  close  it  was  to 
the  lean  years  when  all  these  things  would  end." 

After  stabbing  an  ice  pudding  fiercely  and 
sending  it  scudding  with  remarkable  velocity 
across  the  floor,  he  shakes  the  dust  of  the  place 
from  his  purple  slippers,  and  leaves  behind  him 
every  social  ambition  he  has  ever  entertained. 
Then  the  simple  Kipps  tries  to  maintain  his  wilted 
dignity  by  tipping  disdainful  waiters  and  perky 
chambermaids  at  random.  Finally  he  tips  a  South 
African  diamond  merchant,  who  is  too  absent- 
minded  to  resist.  Then,  convulsively,  he  makes 
his  way  to  Charing  Cross  and  Folkestone. 

He  marries  the  housemaid  in  the  end,  and  is 
faced  with  many  troubles  and  complications1 — 
the  "  stupid  little  tragedies  of  these  clipped  and 
limited  lives."  Kipps  buys  experience,  and  ex- 
changes his  inherited  fortune  for  potential  gold, 
arriving  discursively  at  introspection,  but  he  is 
never  lofty  or  didactic.  "  I  don't  suppose,"  he  says 
to  his  wife  at  the  end  of  the  book,  "  there  ever 
was  a  chap  quite  like  me  before,"  and  then, 
after  a  minute  of  reflection,  he  added  this 
genuine  comment  upon  life  :  "  Oo  ! — I  dunno  !  " 


CHAPTER  XV 

"  MARRIAGE  " 

44  I'M  going  to  get  experience  for  humanity  out 
of  all  my  talents — and  bury  nothing,"  says  one 
of  Wells's  characters  ;  and  that  purpose  seems 
to  permeate  every  book  he  has  written.  He  is 
an  experimenter,  putting  mind  in  the  making 
to  a  thousand  tests,  and  dissecting  the  thought 
behind  the  thought  in  the  most  exhaustive 
manner.  His  novels  are  merely  note  books  of 
practical  tests,  and  he  only  publishes  the  details 
of  his  experiments.  It  is  true  he  makes  certain 
deductions,  but  he  is  always  careful  to  warn 
us  that  they  may  not  hold  good  for  twelve 
months — or  even  twelve  weeks.  The  reader 
need  not  be  reminded  how  very  frequently  Wells 
changes  his  mind.  And  he  does  it  without 
any  shame  or  hesitation  just  as  life  changes  in 
its  process  of  force  and  growth.  He  will  doubtless 
go  on  changing  his  mind  till  he  changes  this  world 
for  another.  In  this  respect  he  is  in  agreement 
with  Chamberlain's  famous  dictum — "  Consis- 
tency is  not  so  important ;  the  main  thing  is  that 
one  should  always  be  right." 

And  there  we  have  the  principle  on  which  he 
follows  up  his  deductions,  and  that  is  why  we 
always  find  him  tilting  at  our  rule-of-thumb 
institutions,  and  attacking  the  world  of  Things 


184 


MARRIAGE  185 

as  they  Are.  He  has  always  been  the  sworn 
foe  of  a  "  resting  "  world — for  Wells,  "  rest  " 
spells  "  rust." 

In  "  Marriage "  he  seems  to  hint  at  some 
great  helpful  existence  which  flickers  into  the 
human  mind  at  times — a  force  to  which  mere 
man  responds  very  feebly,  and  has  written  in  this 
connection  : 

*'  This  permanent  reality  ....  which 
is  never  really  immediate,  which  draws  continually 
upon  human  experience  and  influences  human 
action  more  and  more,  but  which  is  itself  never 
the  actual  player  upon  the  stage.  It  is  the  unseen 
dramatist  who  never  takes  a  call." 

The  story,  with  all  the  feathers  plucked  from 
it,  is  that  of  the  relations  of  Trafford  to  his 
wife  and  the  things  that  happen  to  people, 
"  nowadays,  because  they  will  not  think  things 
out,  much  less  talk  things  out,  and  are  therefore 
in  a  hopeless  tangle  of  values  that  tightens 
sooner  or  later  to  a  knot.  .  ." 

It  is  not  associated  with  any  sexual  tangles, 
but  it  leads  on  to  a  determination  to  "  talk  out  " 
the  meaning  of  life. 

Wells  surveys  this  world  of  ours  and  can  find 
but  few  of  its  inhabitants  who  really  "  give 
themselves  to  those  honourable  adventures 
that  extend  the  range  of  man."  These  are  the 
scientists.  For  the  rest,  the  intellectual  and 
moral  quality  of  too  many  of  us  is  the  quality  of 
an  "  agitated  rag-bag." 


186  H.   G.   WELLS 

Marjorie  is  a  member  of  the  **  rag-bag " 
community,  but  she  goes  to  a  university  and 
afterwards  meets  Trafford,  who  is  engaged  in 
research  relating  to  molecular  physics.  Other- 
wise she  might  have  remained  in  the  rag-bag 
with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pope,  her  father  and  mother, 
and  the  less  fortunate  of  her  brothers  and  sisters. 
Mr.  Pope  is  a  very  clever  study  of  one  kind  of 
man  : 

"  When  Mr.  Pope  had  finished  his  letter  to 
the  Times,  he  got  out  of  the  window  of  the 
study,  treading  on  a  flower-bed  as  he  did  so — 
he  was  the  sort  of  man  who  treads  on  flower- 
beds— partly  with  the  purpose  of  reading  his 
composition  aloud  to  as  many  members  of  his 
family  as  he  could  assemble  for  the  purpose,  and 
so  giving  them  a  chance  of  appreciating  the 
nuances  of  his  irony  more  fully  than  if  they  saw 
it  just  in  cold  print  without  the  advantage  of 
his  intonation,  and  partly  with  the  belated  idea 
of  welcoming  Marjorie." 

Just  as  Marjorie  is  about  to  throw  herself 
a  ay  on  Will  Magnet,  the  humorist,  "  a  fairish 
man  of  forty,  pale,  with  a  large,  protuberant, 
observant  grey  eye — I  speak  particularly  of  the 
left — and  a  face  of  quiet  animation,  warily  alert 
for  the  wit's  opportunity,"  the  scientist  Trafford 
falls  from  the  sky  in  an  aeroplane  on  to  Mr. 
Pope's  tennis  lawn. 

Trafford  is  a  man  of  intellect  and  imagination. 
He  has  before  him  a  brilliant  future  in  scientific 


MARRIAGE  187 

research.  He  has  no  commonplace  vices.  He 
is  devoted  to  his  work  with  all  the  possibilities 
that  it  holds  for  him  of  some  stupendous  revolu- 
tion in  the  laws  which  regulate  inorganic  and 
organic  matter.  Marjorie  is  immediately 
fascinated  by  the  scientist.  She  feels  a  strange 
new  wonder  for  this  type  of  man  as  contrasted 
with  Magnet,  and  becomes  actively  rebellious  to 
her  fiance. 

It  must  be  understood  it  is  simply  because 
Marjorie  is  afflicted  with  an  intolerable  father, 
who  cannot  be  allowed  to  carve  the  chicken 
because  he  "  splashed  too  much  and  bones 
upset  him  and  made  him  want  to  show  up 
chicken  in  the  Times  "  ;  and  because  she  has 
got  into  debt  at  Oxbridge  that  she  has  at  last 
consented  to  marry  Magnet. 

Marjorie  does  her  best  to  appreciate  and 
accept  Magnet  and  his  views,  but  she  is  a  sprite 
of  pure  criticism — a  complex  little  person,  and 
really  does  not  believe  in  her  lover's  devotion 
at  all : 

"  She  was  anti-Magnet,  a  persistent  insurgent. 
She  was  dreadfully  unsettling.  It  was  surely 
this  Marjorie  that  wouldn't  let  the  fact  of  his 
baldness  alone,  and  who  discovered  and  insisted 
upon  a  curious  unbeautiful  flatness  in  his  voice 
whenever  he  was  doing  his  best  to  speak  from  the 
heart.  And  as  for  this  devotion,  what  did  it 
amount  to  ?  A  persistent,  unimaginative  be- 
setting of  Marjorie,  a  growing  air  of  ownership, 


188  H.   G.   WELLS 

an  expansive,  indulgent,  smiling  disposition  to 
thwart  and  control.  And  he  was  always  touching 
her  !  Whenever  he  came  near  her  she  would 
wince  at  the  freedoms  a  large,  kind  hand  might 
take  with  her  elbow  or  wrist,  at  a  possible  sudden, 
clumsy  pat  at  some  erring  strand  of  hair." 

In  the  end  Marjorie  is  found  by  her  father 
kissing  Professor  Trafford  in  the  shrubbery. 
Elopement  with  the  scientist  follows. 

At  the  first  blush  Marjorie's  elopement  with  a 
man  with  but  little  money  appears  a  fine  sacrifice 
on  her  part  if  we  consider  her  warm,  purring 
love  of  pleasure  and  luxury.  But  there  are  other 
aspects  of  the  case.  It  is  possible  she  was  sharp 
enough  to  understand  that  Trafford  had  the 
power  to  acquire  any  amount  of  money  should 
he  choose  to  turn  his  keen  mind  to  commercial 
enterprise.  Indeed  she  may  have  held  a 
resolution  in  the  back  of  her  mind  that  once 
married  she  would  soon  influence  him  to  money- 
making  excursions.  But  marriage  is  not  the  end 
of  this  book  by  a  long  way.  The  crisis  is  reached 
in  the  form  of  a  civil  war  between  them — war 
between  the  claims  of  the  wife  and  the  claims 
of  the  man  of  science.  "  In  love  one  fails  or 
one  wins  home,"  says  Wells,  "  but  the  lure  of 
research  is  for  ever  beyond  the  hills,  every 
victory  is  a  new  desire ;  science  has  inexhaustibly 
fresh  worlds  to  conquer.  .  ."  So  we  find  the 
married  pair  come  to  this  point  : 

"  It's  been  horrible  waiting,"   said  Marjorie, 


MARRIAGE  189 

without  moving  ;  "  horrible  !  Where  have  you 
been  ?  " 

"  I've  been  working.  I  got  excited  by  my 
work.  I've  been  at  the  laboratory.  I've  had 
the  best  spell  of  work  I've  ever  had  since  our 
marriage." 

44  But  I  have  been  up  all  night !  "  she  cried, 
with  her  face  and  voice  softening  to  tears.  **  How 
could  you  ?  How  could  you  ?  " 

By  her  quiet  persevering  struggle  for  luxury 
and  the  higher  social  slopes  of  life  she  robs 
Trafford  of  all  the  calm  repose  that  makes  his 
brain  smooth  and  active.  Finally  she  drives 
him  from  his  work  altogether,  and  turns  him  into 
a  scheming  commercial  prostitute,  diverting  his 
splendid,  fearless  research  to  hidden  and  secret 
work  on  a  composition  of  rubber  for  a  Jewish 
syndicate.  She  sucks  him  dry  of  money  and 
furnishes  her  house  without  regard  of  their  finan- 
cial position.  Then  she  goes  on  to  lead  him  into 
preposterous  social  obligations,  and  uses  his 
steadfast  love  as  defensive  armour  behind  which 
to  level  her  implacable  demands  on  his  genius. 
She  parades  her  children  before  him  and  boasts 
of  the  marvels  of  motherhood  to  avert  discussion. 
And  though  she  knows  that  their  good  position 
has  been  purchased  with  the  surrender  of  all  the 
joy  in  Trafford's  life  she  does  not  relent.  She 
continues  to  pursue  her  own  selfish  path,  spends 
extravagantly,  wastes  her  fine  self  on  Move- 
ments (none  of  which,  says  Wells,  are  of  any  use). 


190  H.   G.   WELLS 

All  the  while  the  husband  and  wife  drift  further 
apart.  The  indication  of  impending  disaster 
comes  in  Trafford's  realisation  that  they  do  not 
talk.  "  We  don't  talk.  It's  astonishing — how 
we  don't.  We  don't.  We  can't.  We  try  to,  and 
we  can't." 

Trafford  becomes  almost  frantic  over  the 
shallow  pleasures  and  "  artistic  "  surroundings 
of  low-grade  and  law-abiding  prosperity  as  he  sees 
these  things  presented  in  the  motley  collection 
of  ambitious  persons  who  now  gather  at  his  house. 

In  the  end  he  rebels,  and  takes  his  wife  away 
from  this  "  busy  death  "  in  London  and  sets  her 
down  for  a  space  amid  the  white  silences  of 
Labrador.  Amid  the  thrilling  dangers  of  a  wild 
solitude  and  a  grim  winter,  they  discover  them- 
selves. They  come  near  to  one  another  in 
moments  of  peril,  deprivation,  and  self-sacrifice. 
He  passionately  asserts,  she  passionately  agrees, 
that  "  we  can't  do  things.  We  don't  bring  things 
off  !  "  "  The  real  thing  is  to  get  knowledge, 
and  express  it."  "  This  Being — opening  its  eyes, 
listening,  trying  to  comprehend.  Every  good 
thing  in  man  is  that — looking  and  making 
pictures,  listening  and  making  songs,  making 
philosophies  and  sciences,  trying  new  powers, 
bridge  and  engine,  spark  and  gun.  At  the  bottom 
of  my  soul,  that."  He  sees  man  without  "  eyes 
for  those  greater  things,  but  we've  got  the  promise 
— the  intimation  of  yes." 

After  this,  we  are  to  suppose,  all  is  well  with 


MARRIAGE  191 

them.  But  what  will  they  become  when  they 
return  ?  Will  Marjorie  be  able  to  resist  the  lure 
of  the  Bond  Street  shops  ?  How  will  she  act  when 
Aunt  Plessington's  guests  once  more  besiege 
her,  and  social  life  presents  itself  again  in  its 
garish  variety  ?  Is  this  visit  to  the  wild  more 
decisive  than  marriage  itself  ?  Will  their  brief 
vision  of  God,  their  intellectual  and  spiritual 
conversion,  make  them  *'  live  happily  ever 
after  "  ? 

I  think  that  Wells  has  his  doubts  about  it, 
although  he  has  tried  to  make  things  look  cheer- 
ful. He  even  goes  so  far  as  to  assure  us  that 
Trafford  has  already  renounced  his  laboratory, 
and  is  thinking  of  becoming  a  kind  of  H.  G. 
Wells  himself : 

44  4  My  dear,'  he  said,  at  last,  4  I've  thought  of 
that.  But  since  I  left  that  dear,  dusty  little 
laboratory,  and  all  those  exquisite  subtle  things — 
I've  lived.  I've  left  that  man  seven  long  years 
behind  me.  Some  other  man  must  go  on — I 
think  some  younger  man — with  the  riddles  I 
found  to  work  on  them.  I've  grown — into 
something  different.  It  isn't  how  atoms  swing 
with  one  another,  or  why  they  build  themselves 
up  so  and  not  so,  that  matters  any  more  to  me. 
I've  got  you  and  all  the  world  in  which  we  live, 
and  a  new  set  of  riddles  filling  my  mind,  how 
thought  swings  about  thought,  how  one  man 
attracts  his  fellows,  how  the  waves  of  motion  and 
conviction  sweep  through  a  crowd,  and  all  the 


192  H.   G.   WELLS 

little  drifting  crystallizations  of  spirit  with 
spirit  and  all  the  repulsions  and  eddies  and 
difficulties  that  one  can  catch  in  that  turbulent 
confusion.  I  want  to  do  a  new  sort  of  work  now 
altogether  ....  Life  has  swamped  me 
once,  but  I  don't  think  it  will  get  me  under 
again  ;  I  want  to  study  man.'  ! 

The  critics  thought  that  the  manner  of 
Trafford's  escape  from  the  things  which  defrauded 
his  soul  was  ill  considered  and  unworkable.  But 
the  more  one  thinks  over  the  matter  the  plainer 
it  appears  that,  although  the  idea  seems  mild 
and  fanciful,  it  would  be  difficult  to  suggest  any 
better  scheme.  I  puzzle  to  conceive  how  any- 
thing else  but  a  complete  withdrawal  from  every 
lure  or  obligation  of  social  life  could  have 
saved  Marjorie — if  indeed  Wells  really  intends 
us  to  think  of  Marjorie  as  a  changed  woman. 
Only  the  loneliness  of  a  Labrador  winter  could 
have  given  them  that  clearer  vision  of  all  the 
movements  and  hindrances  of  human  endeavour. 
From  such  a  detached  standpoint  it  was  certainly 
more  probable  that  Marjorie  would  have  a  chance 
of  vaguely  feeling  that  "  Something  trying  to 
exist "  .  .  .  .  that  "  Something "  which 
isn't  substance,  doesn't  belong  to  space  or  time, 
something  stifled  and  enclosed,  struggling  to 
get  through. 

The  mood  recorded  above  is  repeated  later, 
and  of  course  is  familiar  to  most  thinking  people. 
It  is  the  Veiled  Being,  which  seems  to  be  always 


MARRIAGE  193 

fighting  for  the  ascendency  over  Ahriman  the 
angel  of  evil,  but  who  is  not  all  powerful.  How- 
ever,   we   are   given   to   understand     that     the 
Veiled   Being    does   recognizably    influence   the 
course  of  events.    "  'It  struggles  to  exist,  becomes 
conscious,  becomes  now  conscious  of  itself.    That 
is  where  I  came  in  as  a  part  of  it.     Above  the 
beast  in  me  is  that — the  desire  to  know  better, 
to    know — beautifully,    and    to     transmit     my 
knowledge.     That's  all  there  is  in  life  for  me 
beyond  food  and  shelter  and  tidying  up.     This 
Being — opening    its    eyes,    listening,    trying    to 
comprehend.     Every  good  thing  in  man  is  that 
— looking   and   making   pictures,    listening   and 
making   songs     .     .     .     We   began   with   bone- 
scratching.      We're   still — near   it.      I'm   just   a 
part    of    this     beginning — mixed     with     other 
things.     Every  book,  every  art,   every  religion 
is  that,  the  attempt  to  understand  and  express — 
mixed  with  other  things.'  ' 

The  foundation  of  "  Marriage "  is  a  very 
delightful  novel,  and  thousands  of  people  have 
read  it  without  even  being  aware  of  the  absorbing 
philosophy  of  the  superstructure  which  lies 
within  its  middle  two  hundred  pages.  Wells 
the  thinker  is  deliberately  overlooked  by  the 
heedless  novel  reader,  and  his  new  criticism  of 
life  is  regarded  as  "  great  cry  but  little  wool,  as 
the  De'il  said  when  he  plucked  the  pig." 

The  "  long  talks,"  we  are  told,  at  Lonely 
Hut  among  the  everlasting  snows,  marked  an 

o 


194  H.   G.   WELLS 

epoch  to  Marjorie.  There  were  times  when 
Trafford's  talk  affected  her  like  "  that  joy  of 
light  one  has  in  emerging  into  sunshine  from  a 
long  and  tedious  cave.  He  smashed  and 
scattered  absurd  yet  venerated  conventions  of 
thought,  made  undreamt-of  courses  of  action 
visible  in  a  flare  of  luminous  necessity.  From 
that  day  forth  her  imagination  began  to  shape 
a  new,  ordered  and  purposeful  life  for  Trafford 
and  herself  in  London,  a  life  not  altogether 
divorced  from  their  former  life,  but  with  a  faith 
sustaining  it  and  aims  controlling  it.  She  had 
always  known  of  the  breadth  and  power  of  his 
mind,  but  now  as  he  talked  of  what  he  might 
do,  what  interests  might  converge  and  give 
results  through  him,  it  seemed  she  really  knew 
him  for  the  first  time." 

Personally,  I  think  that  Wells  is  too  trustful 
about  the  sudden  upheaval  in  Marjorie's  method 

of  life.  But  I  don't  know a 

world  without  women  like  Marjorie  to  bang 
about  in  would  be  a  dull  place.  At  any  rate  I 
wish  this  wilful  little  woman  happiness  in  the 
end.  But  in  this  odd,  exasperating,  this 
infinitely  diverting  world  of  ours  I  am  almost 
certain  she  would  never  get  it.  After  reading  the 
following  passage,  which  comes  almost  at  the 
end  of  the  book,  we  feel  the  "  note "  of  a 
renewed  conflict  in  her  passion  for  the  trivial 
immediate  beauty  of  a  well-ordered  house  : 

"  As  she  went  about  the  preparation  of  the 


MARRIAGE  195 

tea,  her  vividly  concrete  imagination  was  active 
with  the  realization  of  the  life  they  would  lead 
on  their  return.  She  could  not  see  it  otherwise 
than  framed  in  a  tall,  fine  room,  a  study,  a  study 
in  sombre  tones,  with  high,  narrow,  tall, 
dignified  bookshelves  and  rich  deep  green 
curtains  veiling  its  windows.  There  should  be  a 
fireplace  of  white  marble,  very  plain  and  well 
proportioned,  with  furnishings  of  old  brass,  and 
a  big  desk  towards  the  window  beautifully  lit 
by  electric  light,  with  abundant  space  for  papers 
to  lie.  And  she  wanted  some  touch  of  the 
wilderness  about  it ;  a  skin  perhaps  .... 
44  The  tea  was  still  infusing  when  she  had 
determined  upon  an  enormous  paper-weight  of 
that  iridescent  Labradorite  that  had  been  so 
astonishing  a  feature  of  the  Green  River  Valley. 
She  would  have  it  polished  on  one  side  only — 
the  other  should  be  rough  to  show  the  felspar 
in  its  natural  state.  ." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

"  THE  INVISIBLE  MAN  " 

THE  fanciful  notion  of  an  invisible  man  has 
been  the  theme  of  many  essays  and  stories ; 
indeed,  the  idea  is  too  full  of  possibilities  to 
have  escaped  either  philosopher  or  writer  of 
scientific  romance.  It  can  be  traced  back  to 
the  Greek  mythus,  or  found  in  the  Bab  Ballads. 
Various  aspects  of  the  miraculous  gift  of  in- 
visibility have  been  presented  by  Guy  de 
Maupassant  and  by  an  obscure  writer,  Fitzjames 
O'Brien.  The  common  or  garden  invisible  man 
is  generally  supposed  to  clothe  himself  with 
invisibility  as  with  a  ready-made  suit  which 
he  can  jump  in  or  out  of  with  the  greatest 
freedom,  able  to  indulge  in  all  his  cravings  for 
good  or  evil  without  fouling  the  restrictions  which 
restrain  and  hamper  ordinary  men.  But  Wells 
in  his  romance  "  The  Invisible  Man  "  carries  the 
idea  well  away  from  the  earlier  romantics,  and 
deals  with  the  subject  very  convincingly.  He 
seeks  to  reduce  the  impossible  into  terms  of  the 
probable,  and  to  answer  the  question  :  "  How 
would  a  man  progress  once  he  became  invisible  ?  " 
Other  writers  on  invisibility  have  rather  shirked 
the  question  of  the  necessity  for  food  and  clothes 
and  the  various  ways  in  which  the  material  man, 


196 


THE  INVISIBLE  MAN  197 

however  elusive  his  shell  may  be,  must  leave 
some  perceptible  traces  of  his  movements. 
The  hero  of  the  story,  Griffin,  does  not  sell  his 
soul  to  the  Devil,  employ  the  ring  of  Gyges,  or 
improve  upon  Shakespeare's  "  receipt  of  fern- 
seed."  He  is  simply  a  medical  student,  of 
University  College,  who  forsakes  medicine  and 
takes  up  physics.  Light  and  optical  density 
fascinate  him  and  he  makes  up  his  mind  to 
devote  his  life  to  this  subject  which  is  such  a 
network  of  riddles.  The  theory  of  Griffin, 
and  his  method  of  winning  the  gift  of  invisibility, 
as  explained  to  Dr.  Kemp,  are  clear  enough 
to  make  us  wonder  whether  the  thing  after  all 
is  such  a  very  impossible  achievement : 

"  Just  think  of  all  the  things  that  are  trans- 
parent and  seem  not  to  be  so !  Paper,  for 
instance,  is  made  up  of  transparent  fibres,  and 
it  is  white  and  opaque  only  for  the  same  reason 
that  a  powder  of  glass  is  white  and  opaque. 
Oil  white  paper,  fill  up  the  interstices  between 
the  particles  with  oil,  so  that  there  is  no  longer 
refraction  or  reflection  except  at  the  surfaces, 
and  it  becomes  as  transparent  as  glass.  And 
not  only  paper,  but  cotton  fibre,  linen  fibre, 
wool  fibre,  woody  fibre,  and  bone,  Kemp ;  flesh, 
Kemp ;  hair,  Kemp  ;  nails  and  nerves,  Kemp  ; 
in  fact,  the  whole  fabric  of  a  man,  except  the 
red  of  his  blood  and  the  dark  pigment  of  hair, 
are  all  made  up  of  transparent,  colourless  tissue — 
so  little  suffices  to  make  us  visible  one  to  the 


198  H.   G.    WELLS 

other.  For  the  most  part,  the  fibres  of  a  living 
creature  are  no  more  opaque  than  water." 

Griffin  has  an  intensely  evil  soul ;  and,  what  is 
more,  he  has  the  power  of  skilfully  concealing 
his  wickedness  behind  a  mask  of  scientific 
enthusiasm.  One  feels  that  all  his  misdeeds  are 
pardonable  seeing  that  his  brain  is  so  abnormally 
acute.  In  order  to  obtain  money  to  carry  on  his 
experiments  he  robs  his  own  father  of  money 
which  he  is  holding  in  trust,  and  the  old  man, 
fearing  to  face  the  matter  out,  shoots  himself. 
Griffin  does  not  lift  his  finger  to  save  his  father's 
character. 

In  an  old  house  in  Great  Portland  Street  he 
begins  by  first  rendering  cotton  wool  invisible. 
A  string  of  statements  about  optical  density — 
"  a  network  of  riddles  " — about  the  tissue  of 
the  human  frame,  and  the  result  of  "  lowering 
its  refractive  index,"  with  a  reference  to  the 
Rontgen  Rays  and  other  still  more  mysterious 
vibrations,  throws  a  scientific  glamour  over  the 
experiments.  Griffin  watches  the  wool  fabric 
fade  away  like  a  wreath  of  smoke  and  vanish. 
He  can  hardly  believe  he  has  made  it  invisible, 
but  he  stretches  out  his  hand  in  the  emptiness 
and  there  is  the  thing  quite  solid,  but  in  no  way 
perceivable  by  the  eye.  At  this  juncture  a  cat 
finds  her  way  into  the  room,  and  the  invisible 
wool  gives  pussy  a  severe  nerve  shock.  In 
three  or  four  hours  Griffin  has  processed  the 
cat : 


THE  INVISIBLE   MAN  199 

"  The  bones  and  sinews  and  the  fat  were  the 
last  to  go,  and  the  tips  of  the  coloured  hairs. 
And,  as  I  say,  the  back  part  of  the  eye,  tough, 
iridescent  stuff  it  is,  wouldn't  go  at  all. 

"  It  was  night  outside  long  before  the  business 
was  over,  and  nothing  was  to  be  seen  but  the 
dim  eyes  and  the  claws.  I  stopped  the  gas- 
engine,  felt  for  and  stroked  the  beast,  which 
was  still  insensible,  released  its  fastenings,  and 
then,  being  tired,  left  it  sleeping  on  the  invisible 
pillow  and  went  to  bed." 

With  the  Invisible  Cat  Griffin  feels  that  the 
prize  is  within  his  grasp.  He  has  barely  twenty 
pounds  left  in  the  world,  and  his  landlord  with 
several  of  the  neighbours  are  daily  growing 
suspicious  and  aggressive  towards  him.  He  makes 
up  his  mind  to  vanish,  setting  to  work  upon  his 
preparations  forthwith.  The  thing  was  done 
that  evening  and  night  and  he  fades  away  him- 
self out  of  human  sight.  The  strange  horror 
of  seeing  his  own  hands  grow  like  clouded  glass 
until  he  could  see  the  sickly  disorder  of  the 
gloomy  room  through  them  is  a  passage  in  which 
Wells  shows  the  true  vision  of  the  seeker,  and 
must  be  read  in  its  entirety  to  be  fully 
appreciated : 

"  I  closed  my  transparent  eyelids.  My  limbs 
became  glassy,  the  bones  and  arteries  faded, 
vanished,  and  the  little  white  nerves  went  last. 
I  gritted  my  teeth  and  stayed  there  to  the  end. 
.  .  .  At  last  only  the  dead  tips  of  the  finger- 


200  H.   G.   WELLS 

nails  remained,  pallid  and  white,  and  the  brown 
stain  of  some  acid  upon  my  fingers." 

Griffin  soon  discovers  that  the  change  he  has 
undergone  is  subject  to  fatal  limitations.  It 
is  true  that  he  has  himself  disappeared,  but  his 
clothes  remain,  and  no  scientific  process  can 
conceal  the  snow  which  falls  on  his  shoulders, 
the  mud  which  clings  to  his  feet,  or  the  money 
in  his  hand  which  he  takes  out  of  other  people's 
cash  boxes.  He  cannot  even  protect  his  eyes 
from  the  glare  of  sun  or  the  sudden  flare  of  gas- 
light, for  his  eyelids  are  transparent.  Also  the 
least  involuntary  noise  betrays  him. 

" '  An  invisible  man,'  he  said,  '  is  a  man 
of  power.'  He  stopped  for  a  moment  to  sneeze 
violently." 

Griffin  is  walking  about  the  high  roads  without 
a  stitch  of  clothing  on  his  back  and  he  speedily 
finds  out  that  even  an  invisible  man  cannot  face 
cold,  exposure,  snowstorms  and  night  without 
some  kind  of  shelter.  However,  in  Drury  Lane  he 
makes  his  way  into  a  shop,  secretes  himself, 
and  in  the  end  knocks  the  owner  on  the  head  and 
steals  clothes,  wig,  mask  and  spectacles.  He 
gags  the  wardrobe  dealer  with  a  Louis  Quatorze 
vest,  and  ties  him  up  in  a  sheet — head  away 
from  the  string. 

There  is  one  weak  detail  in  the  story  at  this 
point — Griffin  dismisses  without  due  considera- 
tion the  plan  of  making  himself  visible  again  by 
painting  his  face  in  its  natural  colours  instead 


THE   INVISIBLE  MAN  201 

of  veiling  the  poverty  of  his  appearance  by  means 
of  bandages  and  a  false  nose. 

The  Invisible  Man  after  having  equipped 
himself  takes  stock  of  his  appearance  in  the 
looking  glass  : 

"  '  Then  came  a  curious  hesitation.  Was  my 
appearance  really  creditable  ?  I  tried  myself 
with  a  little  bedroom  looking-glass,  inspecting 
myself  from  every  point  of  view  to  discover 
any  forgotten  chink,  but  it  all  seemed  sound. 
I  was  grotesque  to  the  theatrical  pitch — a  stage 
miser — but  I  was  certainly  not  a  physical  im- 
possibility. Gathering  confidence,  I  took  my 
looking-glass  down  into  the  shop,  pulled  down 
the  shop  blinds,  and  surveyed  myself  from 
every  point  of  view  with  the  help  of  the  cheval 
glass  in  the  corner. 

" '  I  spent  some  minutes  screwing  up  my 
courage,  and  then  unlocked  the  shop  door 
and  marched  out  into  the  street,  leaving  the 
little  man  to  get  out  of  his  sheet  again  when 
he  liked.  In  five  minutes  a  dozen  turnings 
intervened  between  me  and  the  costumier's 
shop.  No  one  appeared  to  notice  me  very 
pointedly.  My  last  difficulty  seemed  overcome.'  " 

But  disillusionment  again.  Faint  with  the 
desire  for  a  good  savoury  meal  Griffin  decides 
to  treat  himself  to  a  sumptuous  feast  (with  part 
of  the  money  he  has  stolen  from  the  Drury  Lane 
costumier's  shop)  and  is  already  ordering  lunch, 
when  it  occurs  to  him  that  he  cannot  eat  unless 


202  H.   G.    WELLS 

he  exposes  his  invisible  face.  He  retreats  from 
the  restaurant  exasperated,  and  reflects  on  the 
helpless  absurdity  of  an  Invisible  Man  in  the 
heart  of  a  civilised  city  in  a  cold  and  dirty 
climate  : 

"  *  Before  I  made  this  mad  experiment  I  had 
dreamt  of  a  thousand  advantages.  That  after- 
noon it  seemed  all  disappointment.  I  went  over 
the  heads  of  the  things  a  man  reckons  desirable. 
No  doubt  invisibility  made  it  possible  to  get  them, 
but  it  made  it  impossible  to  enjoy  them  when 
they  are  got.  Ambition — what  is  the  good  of 
pride  of  place  when  you  cannot  appear  there  ? 
What  is  the  good  of  the  love  of  woman  when 
her  name  must  needs  be  Delilah  ?  I  have  no 
taste  for  politics,  for  the  blackguardisms  of 
fame,  for  philanthropy,  for  sport.  What  was 
I  to  do  ?  And  for  this  I  had  become  a  wrapped- 
up  mystery,  a  swathed  and  bandaged  caricature 
of  a  man.'  ' 

A  doubt  might  suggest  itself  to  the  curious 
whether  by  further  manipulation  of  the  refrac- 
tive index  Griffin  ought  not  to  have  been  able 
at  once  to  bring  himself  back  to  visibility  with- 
out having  to  retire  to  a  remote  village  in  Sussex 
with  bottles  and  dynamos  to  find  out  how  to  do 
so.  However,  Wells  transports  him  to  the 
"  Coach  and  Horses "  at  Iping  and  we  must 
also  follow  him  there.  Once  at  the  Sussex 
village  Griffin  soon  becomes  the  main  subject  of 
conversation  with  all  the  village  people.  The 


THE   INVISIBLE  MAN  203 

first  suspicions  are  aroused  when  old  Fearenside's 
dog  springs  straight  for  Griffin's  leg,  his  teeth 
finding  flesh  and  bone  where  others  could  only 
see  space  : 

"  *  I'll  tell  you  something,'  said  Fearenside 
mysteriously.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon, 
and  they  were  in  the  little  beershop  of  Iping 
Hanger. 

"  *  Well  ?  '  said  Teddy  Hanfrey. 

"  *  This  chap  you're  speaking  of,  what  my 
darg  bit.  Well — he's  black.  Leastways  his 
legs  are. 

"  *  I  seed  through  the  tear  of  his  trousers 
and  the  tear  of  his  glove.  You'd  have  expected 
a  sort  of  pinky  to  show,  wouldn't  you  ?  Well — 
there  wasn't  none.  Just  blackness.  I  tell 
you  he's  as  black  as  my  hat.' 

"  *  My  sakes  !  '  said  Hanfrey.  '  It's  a  rummy 
case  altogether.  Why,  his  nose  is  as  pink  as 
paint !  ' 

"  '  That's  true,'  said  Fearenside.  '  I  knows 
that.  And  I  tell  'ee  what  I'm  thinking.  That 
marn's  a  piebald,  Teddy ;  black  here  and 
white  there — in  patches.  And  he's  ashamed  of 
it.  He's  a  kind  of  half-bred,  and  the  colour's 
come  off  patchy  instead  of  mixing.  I've  heard 
of  such  things  before.  And  it's  the  common 
way  with  harrses,  as  any  one  can  see.' ' 

A  song  called  "  The  Bogey  Man  "  was  popular 
at  this  time,  and  the  villagers  took  pleasure 
in  singing  a  bar  or  so  of  this  ditty  whenever  the 


204  H.   G.   WELLS 

stranger  appeared,  and  little  children  yelled 
"  Bogey  Man  !  "  after  him,  and  scampered  away 
tremendously  elated. 

Griffin  suddenly  finds  himself  short  of  money 
again  and  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning 
breaks  into  the  vicarage  and  helps  himself  to  the 
housekeeper's  reserve1 — a  few  pounds  in  gold. 
He  is  at  once  suspected  of  the  burglary.  The 
prosaic  acceptance  of  the  situation  by  Jaffers, 
the  constable,  who  has  to  arrest  a  moving  suit  of 
clothes,  "  'Ed  or  no  'ed,"  is  a  gem  of  Wells's 
sprightly  humour  : 

"  '  No  doubt,'  he  says,  4  you  are  a  bit  difficult 
to  see  in  this  light,  but  I  got  a  warrant  and  it's 
all  correct.  What  I'm  after  ain't  no  invisibility, 
it's  burglary.  There's  a  house  been  broken 
into  and  money  took.' ' 

Wells  has  a  peculiar  talent  for  thrusting  the 
miraculous  upon  circumstances  the  most 
ordinary  and  familiar,  divesting  it  of  every  shred 
of  romance  and  pursuing  it  over  hill  and  dale 
with  merciless  logic.  In  reading  "  Jules  Verne  " 
we  feel  that  he  is  quite  prepared  for  the  reader 
to  exclaim,  "  What  a  fantastic  rigmarole  to  be 
sure."  But  Wells  is  deadly  earnest,  and  is  all  the 
time  struggling  to  stamp  out  the  idea  of  artifi- 
ciality out  of  the  mind  of  the  reader.  The  whole 
atmosphere  is  so  natural  and  all  the  villagers 
would  undoubtedly  have  said  and  done  just  what 
he  makes  them  say  and  do — the  parson,  the 
doctor,  and  the  landlady;  or  the  tramp  who  comes 


THE   INVISIBLE   MAN  205 

across  the  invisible  wanderer  on  a  bare  Sussex 
down,  and  can  only  give  up  the  enigma  when  he 
has  stones  thrown  at  him. 

44  4  It's  a  fair  do,'  said  Mr.  Thomas  Marvel, 
sitting  up,  taking  his  wounded  toe  in  hand,  and 
fixing  his  eye  on  the  third  missile,  4 1  don't 
understand.  Stones  flinging  themselves.  Stones 
talking.  Put  yourself  down.  Rot  away.  I'm 
done.'  " 

Another  lively  study  in  the  grotesque  is  the 
scene  where  Griffin  gets  violent  with  his  landlady 
and  starts  to  bombard  her  with  the  lighter 
articles  of  furniture  : 

"  The  stranger's  hat  hopped  off  the  bed-post, 
described  a  whirling  flight  in  the  air  through  the 
better  part  of  a  circle,  and  then  dashed  straight 
at  Mrs.  Hall's  face.  Then,  as  swiftly  came  the 
sponge  from  the  washstand,  and  then  the  chair, 
flinging  the  stranger's  coat  and  trousers  care- 
lessly aside  and  laughing  drily  in  a  voice  singularly 
like  the  stranger's,  turned  itself  up  with  its  four 
legs  at  Mrs.  Hall,  seemed  to  take  aim  at  her  for 
a  moment  and  charged  at  her." 

Towards  the  end  of  the  story  Griffin  becomes  a 
mad  hunted  creature.  All  the  countryside  are 
on  his  track.  He  dreams  of  a  reign  of  terror,  and 
expounds  his  ideas  to  one  of  his  former  college 
friends  : 

4  4  Not  wanton  killing,  but  a  judicious  slaying, 
the  point  is  :  They  know  there  is  an  Invisible 
Man — as  well  as  we  know  there  is  an  Invisible 


206  H.   G.   WELLS 

Man — and  that  Invisible  Man,  Kemp,  must  now 
establish  a  Reign  of  Terror.  He  must  take  some 
town,  like  your  Burdock,  and  terrify  and 
dominate  it.  He  must  issue  his  orders.  He  can 
do  that  in  a  thousand  ways — scraps  of  paper 
thrust  under  doors  would  suffice.  And  all  who 
disobey  he  must  kill,  and  kill  all  who  would 
defend  them.'  ' 

The  very  fact  that  Griffin  is  such  an  undiluted 
scoundrel  saves  the  reader  from  being  too  much 
harrowed  by  his  very  unpleasant  adventures  and 
violent  death.  A  hue  and  cry  is  raised  at  the  heels 
of  the  Invisible  Man.  Hardly  a  dozen  yards 
behind  him  a  huge  navvy,  cursing  in  fragments 
and  slashing  viciously  with  a  spade  .  .  . 
then  the  spade  whirling  through  the  air,  and  a 
dull  thud. 

"  An  old  woman,  peering  under  the  arm  of  the 
big  navvy,  screamed  sharply.  '  Looky  there  !  ' 
she  said,  and  thrust  out  a  wrinkled  finger.  And 
looking  where  she  pointed,  everyone  saw,  faint 
and  transparent,  as  though  made  of  glass,  so  that 
veins  and  arteries,  and  bones  and  nerves  could 
be  distinguished,  the  outline  of  a  hand — a  hand 
limp  and  prone.  It  grew  clouded  and  opaque 
even  as  they  stared." 

As  a  pure  romance  devoid  of  any  of  the  old 
tricks  of  the  trade,  "  The  Invisible  Man  "  will 
still  bear  comparison  to  any  of  Wells' s  later  work 
in  this  direction.  The  Wells  of  1922  need  not 
look  back  with  any  regret  on  the  Wells  of  1898. 


THE   INVISIBLE   MAN  207 

The  technique  here  is  complete  and  his  thought 
is  always  on  the  wing.  The  interest  in  the 
progress  of  the  story  is  carried  forward  with  a 
splendid  movement  to  the  climax,  when  the 
hunted  Griffin  turns  to  bay  filled  with  all  the 
violence  of  an  infuriated  tiger.  Then  his  unseen 
death  agony  and  the  return  to  visibility,  his 
bruised  and  broken  body,  naked  and  pitiful  in 
God's  honest  sunlight,  and  on  his  face  an  expres- 
sion of  "  anger  and  dismay,"  which  one  student 
of  Wells*  has  suggested  might  be  taken  as  a 
symbol  of  "  man's  revolt  against  imprisonment 
in  the  flesh." 

*  "  H.  G.  Wells,"  by  J.  D.  Beretford  (Nisbet  &  Co.,  Ltd.,  1915) 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  ESSEX  OF  H.  G.  WELLS 

WITHOUT  being  in  any  sense  a  "  show  "  county, 
Essex  is  never  disappointing.  Alike  to  the 
wayfarer  who  journeys  through  its  lanes  and 
unfrequented  villages  for  the  first  time,  and  to 
him  who  is  rooted  in  its  steadfast  clay,  and 
draws  from  it  nourishment  and  "  memories  out 
of  mind,"  there  is  a  deep  fascination  in  its 
friendly  plains.  The  chalk  hills  in  the  north 
where  Hertfordshire  and  Cambridgeshire  adjoin 
it  are  very  charming  ;  the  coast  line  is  cut  up  by 
tidal  rivers  in  a  most  miraculous  manner  and 
there  are  to  be  found  at  Mersea  Island  some 
of  the  loneliest  places  within  an  hour  of  London 
that  any  man  can  imagine.  Although  there  are 
no  inland  lagoons  and  noble  downs,  the  rivers 
are  so  charming  that  they  go  a  long  way  to 
making  up  for  this  want.  On  the  north  the  river 
Stour  divides  the  county  from  the  rich  Suffolk 
pasturage  and  feeds  those  wonderful  meadows 
and  watermills  which  Constable  loved  so  well 
and  painted  for  the  world  with  never-failing 
sympathy.  Constable's  pictures  are  imperishable. 
There  is  the  soul  of  Essex  in  them,  and  the 
presence  of  that  fourth  dimension  which  does  not 
exist  for  the  stranger.  Essex  will  never  forget 


208 


THE  ESSEX  OF  H.   G.   WELLS      209 

Constable  —  he  is  a  friendly  ghost — "  just 
mellowish  and  warmish  like  " — and  he  has  out- 
faced death  by  the  radiant  life  he  has  put  on  his 
canvases.  The  sense  of  atmosphere  with  which 
he  has  informed  such  a  landscape  as  "  The 
Cornfield  "  (now  on  the  walls  at  the  National 
Gallery)  recalls  the  fine  lines  of  Hilaire  Belloc  : 

He  does  not  die  that  can  bequeath 
Some  influence  to  the  land  he  knows, 
Or  dares,  persistent,  interwreath 
Love  permanent  with  the  wild  hedgerows ; 
He  does  not  die,  but  still  remains 
Substantiate  with  his  darling  plains. 

The  choice  if  not  very  abundant  woodland 
scenery  of  Hainault  Forest,  views  wide  stretches 
of  country,  the  quaintest  old  houses,  pretty 
commons  and  village  greens,  fields  of  the  showy 
44  Essex  Great  Wheat "  which  towers  two  feet 
higher  than  the  "foreigner's"  crops,  and  yields 
a  straw  which  has  been  precious  for  thatching 
from  a  time  long  before  the  beginning  of  history 
— these  are  only  a  few  of  the  other  attractions 
Essex  has  to  offer. 

You  may  study  the  rivers  Stort  and  Lea  on 
the  west,  which  divide  the  county  from  Hertford- 
shire, and  realise  that  strange  kinship  between 
personality  and  place  which  Izaak  Walton  has 
expressed  in  his  "  Compleat  Angler."  If 
"  the  world  is  too  much  with  us  "  I  can  imagine 
no  more  restful  holiday  than  one  spent  in 
following  in  the  tracks  of  "  the  best  of  fishermen 
and  men  "  in  this  corner  of  Essex.  "  Among 
all  your  readings,"  wrote  Charles  Lamb  to 

p 


210  H.   G.   WELLS 

Coleridge,  "  did  you  ever  light  upon  Walton's 
'  Compleat  Angler  ? '  It  breathes  the  very 
spirit  of  innocence,  purity,  and  simplicity  of 
heart.  There  are  many  choice  old  verses  inter- 
spersed in  it ;  it  would  sweeten  a  man's  temper 
at  any  time  to  read  it ;  it  would  Christianise 
every  discordant,  angry  passion ;  pray  make 
yourself  acquainted  with  it." 

Our  dear  old  Izaak,  as  Wordsworth  noted 
on  the  flyleaf  of  his  "  Compleat  Angler,"  was 
"  nobly  versed  in  simple  discipline,"  and  he 
could  thank  God  for  the  smell  of  lavender, 
and  the  songs  of  birds,  and  a  "  good  day's 
fishing  "  ;  for  "  health  and  a  competence  and 
a  quiet  conscience."  "  Every  misery  that  I  miss 
is  a  new  mercy,"  he  says  to  his  honest  scholar, 
as  they  walk  towards  Tottenham  High  Cross, 
"  and  therefore  let  us  be  thankful.  What 
would  a  blind  man  give  to  see  the  pleasant 
rivers  and  meadows  and  flowers  that  we  have 
met  with  since  we  met  together ;  and  this,  and 
many  other  like  blessings  we  enjoy  daily." 

In  the  rabbit-warren  bazaars  at  the  back  of 
the  market  place  in  Damascus,  I  came  once  by 
accident  upon  a  certain  man.  He  was  just  about 
to  "  shake  off  this  mortal  coil,"  and  a  native 
cigarette  maker  called  me  in  to  witness  his 
dissolution  just  to  see  that  there  was  no  foul 
play  "  and  to  save  lot  of  trouble  'bout  his 
finish  "  afterwards.  For  the  past  twenty  years 
this  Englishman  had  lived  in  the  cigarette 


THE   ESSEX  OF  H.   G.   WELLS      211 

maker's  noisome  hovel  annihilating  time  and 
hunger  and  hope  with  opium  and  certain  bottles 
of  -peculiarly  acrid  Syrian  brandy,  and  the 
manner  of  his  death  was  not  a  thing  I  ever  care 
to  recall.  However,  the  one  thing  I  do  often 
think  about  is  the  way  he  insisted  upon  explain- 
ing to  me  that  he  was  born  at  Dunmow.  He 
wished  the  fact  stated  on  his  gravestone,  and 
bequeathed  me  all  that  he  had  left  (being  divers 
debts  owing  to  natives  for  brandy  and  opium) 
to  see  that  his  wish  was  carried  out.  "  Dunmow  : 
what  a  very  clumsy  name  for  a  gravestone," 
I  said  to  myself.  It  is,  indeed,  an  ungraceful 
name  is  it  not  ? 

Although  an  East  Anglian  by  birth,  I  must 
admit  that  I  had  never  penetrated  to  Dunmow 
till  after  I  had  read  "  Mr.  Britling  Sees  it 
Through,"  and  for  many  years  I  wondered  why 
that  expiring  outcast  felt  such  an  inexplicable 
heart-hunger  for  the  place,  and  wasted  his  last 
breath  in  stamping  the  name  on  my  memory. 

But  a  short  holiday  in  Essex  tracing  the 
landmarks  of  the  H.  G.  Wells  country  has 
set  at  rest  my  curiosity  for  ever  and  ever.  The 
dying  opium  drinker  was  well  justified  in  wishing 
the  name  DUNMOW  to  be  prominent  on  his  grave- 
stone. By  the  Lord  !  I  cannot  imagine  what 
kink  in  his  brain  ever  made  him  desert  his 
native  town  in  the  first  instance.  Maybe  it 
was  a  girl  who  did  not  love  him,  or  loved  him 
too  well,  or  he  felt  the  fires  of  Drake  and 


212  H.   G.   WELLS 

Columbus  scorching  his  soul.  Perhaps  the 
undefinable  and  insistent  call  of  the  East  loomed 
upon  him  and  dwarfed  every  other  longing 
desire,  and  by  a  happy  blending  of  good  and 
evil  things  he  hoped  to  win  fame  and  fortune, 
come  back  to  Dunmow,  walk  the  fields  of 

Easton  and — 

From  the  sun 

Take  warmth,  and  life  from  the  glowing  earth  ; 
Speed  with  the  light-foot  winds  to  run, 

And  with  the  trees  to  newer  birth  ; 
And  find,  when  fighting  shall  be  done, 
Great  rest,  and  fulness  after  dearth. 

0  delectable  lands  of  our  dreams  !     O  Valley 
of  Bliss,    or   whatever   Garden   of  Delight   our 
erring   feet   have    missed !      How    twisted    and 
deceitful    are    the    pathways    to    your     gates ! 
George  Gissing  asks  in  one  of  his  early  novels  : 
"  Is  not  the  best  of  life   that  involuntary  flush 
of  memory  upon  instants  of  the  eager  past  ?  " 

1  think  that  most  of  us  will  be  ready  to  agree 
with   him.     Dunmow   was   not   the   place    my 
opium-eater    deliberately   sought   to   remember 
at   last,    or   raved   about   during   his   carousals 
with    Arab    horse-dealers,    or    eulogized   in    his 
letters  to  a  brother  who  lived  in  Brixton.    Some 
cunning  power  beyond  any  sense  of  individual 
taste  or  preference  awakened  a  complete  satis- 
faction in  his  soul  that  he  had  been  born  there, 
and   that   his   ghost   might   at   least   return   to 
soften  the  drowsy  Essex  twilight  in  summer  or 
"  ride  the  loud  October  sky  "  in  winter. 

Dunmow  is  a  "  friendly  town  " — there  is  no 


THE  ESSEX  OF  H.   G.   WELLS      213 

misnomer  there — but  I  have  a  deep-rooted 
belief  that  my  friend  the  opium-eater  was  not 
only  thinking  of  the  topographical  features  of 
the  town.  It  is  possible  that,  because  of  his 
lineage  and  memories  of  the  Essex  soil,  the 
titivating  aroma  of  the  famous  Dunmow  ale 
waxed  strong  in  his  nostrils  at  the  last  moment, 
and  it  was  vouchsafed  to  him  to  see  how  foolish 
he  had  been  to  desert  Essex  and  ale  for  the 
East  and  opium.  Of  course  that  is  only 
conjecture 

About  two  miles  through  Dunmow  is  H.  G. 
Wells's  house,  called  Easton  Glebe.  It  is  in  the 
park  of  the  Countess  of  Warwick,  and  is  sur- 
rounded by  most  charming  woods,  and  the 
adjoining  lands  have  as  much  seclusion  and 
wildness  as  any  lover  of  nature  could  desire. 
This  untrodden  nook  of  England  has  a  quiet 
charm  about  it  which  those  only  who  have 
lived  in  it  can  really  justly  value,  and  to  the 
botanist  the  flora  of  Essex  is  one  of  particular 
appeal.  The  early  botanists  and  herbalists 
were  very  much  attracted  to  the  countryside 
about  Dunmow.  John  Vaughan,  in  a  fascinating 
article  on  "  Essex  and  the  Early  Botanists," 
tells  how  Gerarde,  who  occupied  the  position  of 
"  herbarist "  to  James  I,  made  frequent 
expeditions — at  that  time  termed  "  simpling- 
voyages  " — to  many  odd  nooks  and  corners  of 
the  country  : 

44  From   the   entries   scattered  up   and   down 


214  H.   G.   WELLS 

the  sixteen  hundred  folio  pages  of  his  '  Herbal ' 
it  would  appear  that  he  was  acquainted  with 
the  district  north  of  the  Thames,  from  Ilford  to 
Leigh ;  he  was  also  familiar  with  Mersea  Isle, 
and  the  salt-marshes  about  Walton  and  Dover- 
court  ;  while  inland  we  find  him  at  Chelmsford 
and  Colchester,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Dunmow 
and  Braintree,  and  further  north  at  Pebmarsh 
and  Castle  Hedingham.  It  is  most  interesting 
to  note  the  plants  which  attracted  the  attention 
of  the  old  herbalist  as  he  went  on  his  '  simpling- 
voyages '  about  the  county.  Over  seventy 
species  he  mentions  as  occurring  in  Essex ;  some, 
as  the  wild  clematis,  the  saw-wort,  and  the 
butcher's  broom,  as  found  4  in  divers  places  '  ; 
others,  with  exact  reference  to  the  spots  where 
they  may  be  found.  The  curious  mousetail, 
so-called  because  of  the  arrangement  of  its 
carpels  4  resembling  very  notably  the  taile  of  a 
mouse,'  he  found  '  in  Woodford  Row,  in  Waltham 
Forrest,  and  in  the  orchard  belonging  to  Mr. 
Francis  Whetstone  in  Essex.'  The  burnet  or 
Scotch  rose  he  notes  as  growing  '  very  plentifully 
in  a  field  as  you  go  from  a  village  in  Essex  called 
Graies  (upon  the  brinke  of  the  river  Thames) 
up  to  Horndon  on  the  hill,  insomuch  that  the 
field  is  full  fraught  therewith  all  over.'  '  Upon 
the  church  walls  of  Railey  '  the  little  wall-rue 
fern  (Asplenium  Ruta-muraria,  L.)  was  abundant 
in  Gerarde's  days ;  and  in  '  a  wood  hard  by  a 
gentleman's  house  called  Mr.  Leonard,  dwelling 


THE  ESSEX  OF  H.   G.   WELLS      215 

upon  Dawes  heath,'  the  golden  rod  was  in  flower, 
and  the  tutsan  or  parke-leaves,  '  out  of  which  is 
pressed  a  juice,  not  like  black  bloud,  but  Claret 
or  Gascoigne  wine.'  '  Neere  to  Lee  in  Essex,' 
over  against  Canvey  Island,  our  herbarist  found 
the  lily  of  the  valley,  and  in  the  woods  there- 
abouts the  yellow  dead-nettle ;  while  '  in  the 
greene  places  by  the  sea  side  at  Lee  among  the 
rushes  and  in  sundry  other  places  thereabouts  ' 
the  beautiful  meadow  saxifrage  grew  then,  as 
now,  abundantly.  On  the  sea-shore  and  in  the 
salt-marshes  which  here  stretch  away  for  many 
a  mile  he  noticed  a  number  of  maritime  plants 
such  as  the  marsh  mallow,  the  sea  lavender,  and 
the  rare  Euphorbia  Par  alias,  L.,  or  sea  spurge." 

At  Dunmow  other  interesting  plants  indicated 
by  Gerarde  include  :  "  The  common  tway-blade, 
the  '  wilde  white  hellebor  or  helleborine,  and 
the  liquorice  wetch,'  the  leaves  whereof  hath 
the  taste  of  liquorice  root." 

But  a  name  more  illustrious  than  that  of 
Gerarde  is  associated  with  Essex  : 

"  We  refer  to  the  illustrious  John  Ray,  the 
foremost  naturalist  of  his  age,  and  the  founder 
of  modern  scientific  botany.  He  was  born  at 
Black  Notley,  near  Braintree,  some  twelve 
years  after  the  death  of  Gerarde.  The  entry  of 
his  baptism  may  still  be  made  out  in  the  church 
register,  stained  and  brown  with  age,  and  runs 
in  almost  illegible  writing  :  '  John  son  of  Roger 
and  Eliz  Wray  bapt.  June  29,  1628.'  In  later 


216  H.   G.   WELLS 

life  John  Ray  (as  he  came  afterwards  to  spell 
his  name)  returned  to  his  native  village  and 
built  a  house  c  on  Dewlands,'  where  he  died 
in  the  year  1705.  Ray's  stately  tomb,  a  pyramidal 
monument  some  ten  feet  in  height  and  bearing 
a  lengthy  Latin  inscription,  may  still  be  visited 
in  the  churchyard." 

But  we  must  return  to  the  Wells  landmarks. 
The  reader  will  have  no  difficulty  in  connecting 
the  Countess  of  Warwick's  barn  theatre  at 
Little  Easton  with  the  "  Tithe  Barn  at 
Claverings "  where  the  Flemish  refugees  were 
distributed,  under  the  personal  supervision  of 
Lady  Homartyn  in  "  Mr.  Britling  Sees  it 
Through."  This  barn,  a  very  lofty  and  ancient 
building,  has  been  placed  at  the  disposal  of  the 
Dunmow  Progressive  Club  by  the  Countess  in 
order  to  give  the  intellectual  life  of  the  villages 
around  "  just  the  tiniest  push  forward."  Plays 
in  the  Essex  dialect  have  been  given  there, 
besides  J.  M.  Synge's  "  Tinker's  Wedding," 
Sir  James  Barrie's  "  Twelve  Pound  Look,"  and 
Mr.  S.  L.  Bensusan's  comedy  "  The  Furiner." 

Wells  has  not  had  the  heart  to  outrage  the 
Essex  tradition  by  having  any  elaborate  electric 
system  in  his  Essex  home.  Acetylene  gas  is  used 
for  lighting  the  house.  He  has  himself  shown 
how  perfectly  hateful  an  electric  lighting  outfit 
is  to  the  rustic,  and  has  explained  that  it  is  too 
"  slippery  and  glib  "  for  the  twilight  quietness 
of  the  peasant  mind  : 


THE  ESSEX  OF  H.   G.   WELLS     217 

"  At  Claverings  here  they  still  refuse  to  have 
electric  bells.  There  was  a  row  when  the 
Solomonsons,  who  were  tenants  here  for  a  time, 
tried  to  put  them  in " 

I  could  find  it  in  my  heart  to  envy  the  Essex 
rustic  who  surveys  electricity  with  such  intense 
disfavour.  He  possesses  the  blessings  the 
Greek  poet  knew  were  the  finest  things  in  the 
world — deep  peace  and  quiet  breathing.  If 
Hodge  keeps  away  from  the  soul-destroying  lure 
of  electricity  he  will  in  all  probability  steer 
clear  of  crime,  desire  for  riches,  telephones, 
bawling  bankers  and  stockbrokers,  fried-fish 
shops,  motor-cycles,  aeroplanes  and  film- 
actresses.  After  all,  there  is  much  comfort  in 
that  thought. 

Wells  has  faithfully  described  his  house  in 
"  Mr.  Britling "  and  has  not  exaggerated  its 
agreeable  appearance  : 

"  It  was  a  square-looking  old  red-brick  house 
he  had  come  to,  very  handsome  in  a  simple 
Georgian  fashion,  with  a  broad  lawn  before  it 
and  great  blue  cedar  trees,  and  a  drive  that 
came  frankly  up  to  the  front  door  and  then 
went  off  with  Mr.  Britling  and  the  car  round  to 
unknown  regions  at  the  back.  The  centre  of 
the  house  was  a  big  airy  hall,  oak-pannelled, 
warmed  in  winter  only  by  one  large  fireplace 
and  abounding  in  doors  which  he  knew  opened 
into  the  square  separate  rooms  that  England 
favours." 


218  H.   G.   WELLS 

No  wonder  that  our  author  likes  to  get  away 
from  all  the  rush  of  London  to  this  dear  secluded 
corner  of  England,  with  its  yellow-plastered 
and  red-roofed  dwellings,  curious  timber  churches, 
and  kind  souls  ! — for  that  is  another  of  the 
charms  of  Essex  :  the  old-world  politeness  and 
chivalry  of  the  natives.  This  survival  of  rustic 
simplicity  and  mellowness  in  some  of  the  country 
folk  must  not  be  mistaken  for  stupidity  ;  indeed 
these  qualities  often  cover  a  deep  philosophy 
and  a  stubborn  spirit  which  under  a  show  of 
submission,  humility,  generous  hat  touching  and 
murmurs  of  "  Just  as  you  do  please,  sir,"  wins 
its  way  through  against  all  adverse  opinion  and 
argument.  The  Essexer  may  be  called  silly, 
but  it  is  better  to  be  sure  than  clever,  and 
sharpness  too  often  outflanks  politeness.  As 
long  as  Essex  can  embranch  and  broaden  the 
mind  of  such  a  writer  as  H.  G.  Wells,  to  quote 
only  one  up-to-date  example,  the  county  can 
afford  to  ignore  those  who  call  it  dull  and  stupid. 
Wells  writes  of  the  fascination  of  Essex  with 
sureness  and  sympathy  in  "  Mr.  Britling  "  : 

"  The  suburbs  of  London  stretch  west  and 
south  and  even  west  by  north,  but  to  the  north- 
eastward there  are  no  suburbs ;  instead  there  is 
Essex.  Essex  is  not  a  suburban  county,  it  is  a 
characteristic  and  individualised  county  which 
wins  the  heart.  Between  dear  Essex  and  the 
centre  of  things  lie  two  great  barriers,  the  East 
End  of  London  and  Epping  Forest.  Before  a  train 


220  H.   G.   WELLS 

could  get  to  any  villadom  with  a  cargo  of  season- 
ticket  holders  it  would  have  to  circle  about  this 
rescued  woodland  and  travel  for  twenty  un- 
profitable miles,  and  so  once  you  are  away  from 
the  main  Great  Eastern  lines  Essex  still  lives 
in  the  peace  of  the  eighteenth  century,  and 
London,  the  modern  Babylon,  is,  like  the  stars, 
just  a  light  in  the  nocturnal  sky.  In  Hatching's 
Easy,  as  Mr.  Britling  presently  explained  to 
Mr.  Direck,  there  are  half-a-dozen  old  people 
who  have  never  set  eyes  on  London  in  their 
lives — and  do  not  want  to. 

"  *  Aye-ya  !  ' 

**  *  Fussin'  about  thea.' 

" '  Mr.   Robinson,    'e  went  to  Lon',   'e  did. 
That's  'ow  'e  'urt  'is  fut.'  " 

No  one  has  drawn  a  better  picture  of  the 
obstinate  Essex  rustic.  The  station-master  of 
Matching's  Easy  is  a  splendid  study  of  the 
liveliness  and  tenacity  of  a  certain  type  of  East 
Anglian  peasant.  As  a  matter  of  fact  this  official 
"  with  the  determined  looking  face  and  sea 
voice  "  is  an  actual  living  character,  and  is  locally 
called  "  the  talking  fish."  Matching's  Easy 
station,  where  the  trains  only  stop  "  by  request," 
is  perchance  Easton  Lodge  station,  and  the  scene 
of  the  discourse  on  sweet  peas  so  effectively 
delivered  by  the  voluble  station-master : 

"  Mr.  Darling  what's  head  gardener  up  at 
Claverings,  ^e  can't  get  sweet  peas  like  that, 
try  'ow  'e  will.  Tried  everything  'e  'as.  Sand 


THE   ESSEX   OF  H.   G.   WELLS      221 

ballast,  'e's  tried.  Seeds  same  as  me.  'E  came 
along  'ere  only  the  other  day,  'e  did,  and  'e 
says  to  me,  'e  says,  '  darned  'f  I  can  see  why  a 
station-master  should  beat  a  professional  gardener 
at  'is  own  game,'  'e  says,  4  but  you  do.  And  in 
your  orf  time,  too,  so's  to  speak,'  'e  says.  '  I've 
tried  sile,'  'e  says — " 

"  Your  first  visit  to  England  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Britling  of  his  guest. 

"  Absolutely,"  said  Mr.  Direck. 

"  I  says  to  'im,  *  there's  one  thing  you  'aven't 
tried,'  I  says,"  the  station-master  continued, 
raising  his  voice  by  a  Herculean  feat  still  higher. 

44  I've  got  a  little  car  outside  here,"  said  Mr. 
Britling.  "  I'm  a  couple  of  miles  from  the 
station." 

*'  I  says  to  'im,  I  says,  *  'ave  you  tried  the 
vibritation  of  the  trains  ?  '  I  says.  4  That's  what 
you  'aven't  tried,  Mr.  Darling.  That's  what 
you  can't  try,'  I  says.  l  But  you  rest  assured 
that  that's  the  secret  of  my  sweet  peas,'  I  says, 
'  nothing  less  and  nothing  more  than  the 
vibritation  of  the  trains.'  ' 

The  head  gardener  at  Claverings  mentioned 
above  is  another  local  celebrity — Mr.  Lister  of 
Easton  Lodge,  horticulturist  to  the  Countess  of 
Warwick. 

The  old  thatched  inn,  "  The  Stag,"  which 
stands  in  the  roadway  opposite  the  Easton 
demesne,  will  not  fail  to  arrest  attention.  But 
the  pilgrim,  should  he  ask  a  rustic  to  direct 


222  H.    G.   WELLS 

him  to  this  house  of  refreshment,  must  not  call 
it  "  The  Stag " — it  is  locally  known  as  the 
"  Plumper's  Arms."  The  house  is  faithfully 
described  by  Wells  in  "  Mr.  Britling  "  as  "an 
inn  with  a  sign  standing  out  in  the  road,  a 
painted  sign  of  the  Clavering  Arms,  it  had  a 
water  trough  (such  as  Mr.  Weller  senior  ducked 
the  dissenter  in)  and  a  green  painted  table  out- 
side its  inviting  door."  The  landlord  of  the 
"  Plumper's "  is  a  perfect  original,  and  by 
humour  and  racy  anecdotes  draws  numbers  of 
people  to  his  ingle.  From  him  you  may  hear 
about  all  the  oddities  and  scandals  of  the  country 
for  ten  miles  round.  Inside  the  little  inn  the 
great  oak  ceiling-beams  scowl  down  upon  the 
visitor,  and  warn  him  that  this  is  no  stucco 
villa  with  two  feet  concrete  foundations  and 
slipslap  brickwork.  Mr.  Matthews  has  many 
stories  of  bygone  days,  and  one  which  is  curiously 
revealing  as  to  the  Arcadian  vein  of  humour  is 
well  worth  repeating  : 

"  Why,  Mus  Dawkins,  what  ever  has  happened 
to  your  old  dog  ?  "  said  a  rustic  to  his  crony,  as 
his  lurcher  trotted  after  him  bleeding  from  some 
nasty  cuts  and  bruises  about  his  dewlap. 

'*  Well,  bor,  it  was  this  way  you  see.  I  was 
coming  past  the  lodge  gate  together  when  all 
at  onst  I  be  bothered  if  old  Lord  's  furry- 
coat  ship-dawg  didn't  roosh  out  at  my  oP  dawg, 
and  fairly  slaughter  'im.  His  lordship  was 
behither  the  hedge  an'  I  called  him  out  and 


THE   ESSEX   OF   H.   G.   WELLS      223 

tongue-lashed  'im  to  the  proper  tune  of  music. 
A  man's  gotter  stick  up  for  his  own.  .  ." 

"  You  fare  to  be  wunnerful  audacious," 
declared  the  other  rustic  in  frank  admiration. 
"  Depend  on't  there's  not  many  'bout  here 
would  stand  up  and  brow-beat  a  gen'leman 
with  a  handle  to  'is  name." 

"  Handle  to  'is  name.  Gaw !  "  said  Mr. 
Dawkins  with  wrathful  indignation.  "  So's  a 
hop-dog  gotter  a  five  fut  handle !  But  that 
don't  keep  it  from  getting  its  nose  rubbed  in  the 
dirt  now  and  again  !  " 

For  the  information  of  my  readers  who  are 
not  conversant  with  the  implement  called  a 
"  hop-dog,"  I  may  explain  this  instrument  con- 
sists of  a  long  piece  of  wood,  to  act  as  a  lever, 
and  a  V  shaped  piece  of  iron  with  teeth  cut  in 
it  attached  to  the  end,  to  clasp  the  hop-poles, 
and  draw  them  readily  from  the  ground. 

How  mightily  some  of  these  rustics  swear ; 
how  like  the  old  Vikings  they  quaff  their  ale, 
and  how  joyous  is  their  pledge,  "  ere's  to  your 
good  health,  even  if  it's  a  mile  to  the  bottom." 
It  is  interesting  to  note  that  "  one  that  will  drink 
deepe,  though  it  bee  a  mile  to  the  bottome  " 
is  one  of  the  synonyms  for  a  man  "  who  takes  a 
pint  otherwhile "  noted  by  Hey  wood  and 
Shakespeare.  When  an  Essex  man  accidentally 
"  drowns  "  his  whisky  with  water  he  speaks  of 
it  as  "  putting  the  miller's  eye  out."  The 
occult  reason  for  dragging  a  miller  into  this 


224  H.   G.   WELLS 

saying  is  no  doubt  connected  with  the  fact  that 
while  water  is  the  breath  of  life  to  him  for  the 
purpose  of  working  his  mill,  he  can  easily  have 
too  much  of  a  good  thing  in  the  way  of  floods. 
A  "  shant  of  gatter,"  which  is  the  Essex 
shibboleth  for  a  pot  of  beer,  is  curious,  and  there 
would  be  little  difficulty  in  connecting  it  with 
Shakespeare's  "  shinker,"  meaning  a  tapster. 
A  pot  of  beer  is  divided  into  three  draughts  by 
the  rustic — "  neckum,"  "  sinkum  "  and 
'*  swankum."  The  meaning  of  the  first  two 
expressions  are  quite  clear,  but  I  have  yet  to 
learn  why  the  "  heel-tap  "  is  called  "  swankum." 
Beer  is  also  called  "  belly wengins,"  or  belly 
vengeance,  and  recalls  an  old  tag  : 

Be  sure,  overnight  if  this  dog  (beer)  do  you  bite, 
You  take  it  henceforth  for  a  warning, 
For  vengeance  sake,  and  your  thirst  to  slake 
Take  a  hair  of  his  tail  in  the  morning. 

When  an  Essex  man  means  to  convey  to  you 
that  he  "  owns  a  field  "  he  will  tell  you  that 
44  he  owes  it  "  or  "he  do  owe  it,"  and  that  will 
be  enough  to  recall  to  your  memory  one  of  the 
most  charming  passages  in  the  English 
language — 

No  poppy,  nor  mandragora, 
Nor  all  the  drowsy  syrups  of  the  world, 
Shall  ever  medicine  thee  to  that  sweet  sleep 
Which  thou  owedst  yesterday. 

44  Gal-ka-bor  "  may  seem  like  the  name  of  an 
oriental  character  from  the  4t  Arabian  Nights  " 
to  those  unacquainted  with  the  rustic  dialect, 
but  it  really  signifies  a  44  girl-cow-boy."  Another 


THE   ESSEX   OF   H.   G.   WELLS       225 

curiosity  of  the  dialect  is  the  adverbial  turn 
given  to  compound  epithets  by  the  addition  of 
"  ly "  as  toss-pot-ly "  and  "  stuff-gut-ly." 
"  Er  "  is  added  to  names  of  places  to  indicate 
residents  as  Coxaller  (Coggeshaller). 

The  people  of  Coggeshall  do  not  bear  a  very 
enviable  character,  for  we  are  told  they  have 
always  held  a  reputation  for  Bceotian  foolishness 
and  boastfulness.  The  expression  a  "  Coxall  job  " 
is  still  used  by  the  Essex  people  to  denote  a 
foolish  act,  and  the  tradition  is  supported  by  the 
old  saying  : 

Braintree  for  the  pure, 
And  Booking  for  the  poor, 
Cogshall  for  the  foolish  town, 
And  Kelvedon  for  the  whore. 

In  a  Coggeshall  inn  I  was  gravely  told  the  immortal 
story  of  Winthrop  the  local  carrier.  "  Winthrop 
was  a  woundly  (very  great)  fellow  with  the 
wenches  and  the  ale,  and  could  dance  like  a  flea," 
said  my  informant  to  give  a  point  to  his  story. 
"  Well,  one  night  he  came  in  here  and  must  have 
swigg'd  off  one  pot  too  many,  for  he  suddenly 
jumped  up  and  looked  wonnerful  white,  like  he 
didn't  rightly  know  where  he  was.  '  Hark  !  ' 
he  sez.  '  That's  my  horses  and  wagon  galloping 
up  the  street.  The  whole  blighted  lot  hev  taken 
fright.  For  God's  sake,  you  boys,  come  and  help 
me  chase  'em.'  : 

In  a  moment  the  tap  room  was  all  of  a  hugger- 
mugger,  and  everybody  was  rushing  for  the  door 
and  gameling  about  in  the  street.  The  carrier 

Q 


226  H.    G.   WELLS 

swore  he  could  hear  his  wagon  in  the  distance, 
and  set  off  after  it  in  a  real  rumbustical  way 
with  all  the  simple  Coggeshallers  kicking  up  a 
shindy  behind  him.  The  only  man  who  did  not 
sow  any  gape-seed  was  old  Gabber,  the  landlord 
of  the  inn  ;  he  did  not  fare  to  bother  his  head 
about  it.  Well,  later  on  back  came  all  the 
crowd  on  'em,  puffing  and  blowing,  after  running 
three  miles,  and  swearing  no  end. 

44  Found  the  waggon,  boys  ?  "  asked  old 
Gabber. 

44  Hem-a-bit,"  sez  Winthrop.  "  The  plaguy 
thing  hev  clean  vanished  with  dunnamany  folks' 
boxes  and  parcels  with  it." 

44  Have  you  looked  in  the  stable  for  the  horses 
where  ye  put  'em  ?  '  sez  Gabber,  looking 
wunnerful  cunning. 

And  sure  enough,  when  the  company  of  bar 
went  round  to  stable,  they  found  the  wagon  in 
the  yard  and  the  horses  44  put  up "  exactly 
where  the  carrier  had  unharnessed  them  a  few 
hours  previously  ! 

Market  Saffron,  44  where  Mr.  Direck  explored 
the  church  and  the  churchyard  and  the  parish 
register,"  is  of  course  Saffron  Walden,  where 
the  saffron  crocus  was  once  largely  cultivated. 
But  saffron  is  no  longer  grown  here  now  and 
about  the  only  remembrance  of  it  are  the  saffron 
flowers  carved  in  the  spandrels  of  the  aisle  arch 
opposite  the  south  door  of  the  parish  church. 
The  rise  of  the  cultivation  of  saffron  in  Essex 


THE   ESSEX   OF  H.   G.   WELLS      227 

is  a  thing  which  is  shrouded  in  mystery.  John 
Vaughan  writes  : 

"  It  is  commonly  said,  and  the  statement  is 
repeated  by  one  writer  after  another,  that  it 
was  introduced  by  one  Sir  Thomas  Smith,  into 
the  neighbourhood  of  Walden  in  the  time  of 
Edward  III.  Old  Hakluyt,  writing  in  1582,  says, 
'  It  is  reported  at  Saffron  Walden  that  a  pilgrim, 
proposing  to  do  good  to  his  countrey,  stole  a 
head  of  Saffron,  and  hid  the  same  in  his  Palmer's 
staffe,  which  he  had  made  hollow  before  of  pur- 
pose, and  so  he  brought  the  root  into  this  realme 
with  venture  of  his  life,  for  if  he  had  bene  taken, 
by  the  law  of  the  countrey  from  whence  it  came, 
he  had  died  for  the  fact.'  It  is  evident  from  this 
story  that  even  in  the  sixteenth  century  Saffron 
had  been  so  long  cultivated  at  Walden  that  the 
true  history  of  its  introduction  had  been  lost ; 
and  perhaps  the  theory  of  old  Cole  in  his  '  Adam 
in  Eden,'  published  in  1657,  may  not  be  so  far 
wrong  when  he  suggested  that  for  this  plant, 
as  for  so  many  others,  we  are  indebted  to  the 
Romans." 

Alas !  the  old  order  changes !  It  is  with 
feelings  of  genuine  regret  that  we  find  no  saffron 
plants  at  "  Walden " — the  town  among  the 
woods — especially  as  our  old  friend  Gerarde 
tells  us  that  "  the  moderate  use  thereof  is  good 
for  the  head,  and  maketh  the  sences  move 
quicke  and  lively,  shaketh  off  heavy  and  drowsie 
sleepe,  and  maketh  a  man  merry." 


228  H.   G.   WELLS 

In  Camden's  "  Britannia "  we  find  the 
following  interesting  passage  : 

"  The  fields  all  about,"  he  says,  "  look  very 
pleasant  with  saffron.  For  in  the  month  of  July 
every  third  year,  when  the  roots  have  been  taken 
up,  and  after  twenty  days  put  under  the  turf 
again,  about  the  end  of  September  they  shoot 
forth  a  bluish  flower,  out  of  the  midst  whereof 
hang  three  yellow  chives  of  saffron,  which  are 
gathered  in  the  morning  before  sun-rise,  and 
being  taken  out  of  the  flower  are  dried  by  a  gentle 
fire.  And  so  wonderful  is  the  increase,  that 
from  every  acre  of  ground  they  gather  eighty 
or  an  hundred  pounds  of  wet  saffron,  which 
when  it  is  dry,  makes  about  twenty  pounds. 
And  what  is  more  to  be  admired,  that  ground 
that  hath  borne  saffron  three  years  together, 
will  bear  barley  very  plentifully  eighteen  years 
without  dunging,  and  then  will  bear  saffron 
again." 

"  Walsen  "  is  the  Saxon  name  for  the  town, 
and  in  other  times  the  word  "  Chipping  "  was 
prefixed  to  signify  that  it  included  a  market. 
Then  "  Saffron  "  came  forward  as  a  prefix,  and 
with  the  wane  of  this  plant  the  town  became 
spoken  of  as  plain  Walden. 

To  the  south  of  the  town  lies  Newport,  which 
Mr.  Reginald  A.  Beckett  in  his  "  Romantic 
Essex  "  says  should  certainly  be  visited  for  the 
sake  of  the  character  and  distinction  of  the 
ancient  houses  in  the  village  street : 


THE   ESSEX   OF   H.   G.   WELLS      229 

"  One  of  them,  called  Monk  Barns,  believed 
to  have  belonged  to  some  religious  fraternity, 
has  upon  its  front  a  carved  wooden  group  of 
figures  which  seem  to  represent  the  coronation 
of  the  Virgin.  Not  far  off  stands  the  Crown 
House  (so  called  from  a  crown  over  the  door), 
said  to  have  been  formerly  occupied  by  Nell 
Gwynne  ;  while  the  '  Coach  and  Horses  '  Inn 
also  has  associations  with  the  reign  in  which  she 
flourished." 

The   last   time   I   paid   a   visit   to   Walden   I 

alighted  at  the  ,  an  old-fashioned 

rambling  inn,  which  looks  as  if  it  had  known 
no  change  since  the  days  when  coaches  rolled 
past  it  to  Norwich.  I  was  diverted  here  by  the 
arrival  of  two  farmers  ;  with  them  I  spent  the 
rest  of  the  evening  in  cheerful  converse.  One 
of  them  told  me  how,  in  his  childhood,  the 
Essex  dialect  flourished  among  the  older  yeoman 
land-holders.  The  Essex  dialect  bears  a  close 
resemblance  to  the  dialect  of  Suffolk,  while 
the  latter  is  nearly  allied  to  the  phraseology  of 
Norfolk.  I  may  here  remark  a  peculiarity  in 
the  use  of  the  word  "  together."  Throughout 
the  county  the  peasants  use  this  word  in  a 
most  perplexing  and  unconnected  way,  placing 
it  anywhere  in  a  sentence  where  it  will  really 
be  meaningless.  Mr.  Charles  G.  Harper  in  his 
"  Norwich  Road  "  remarks  that  it  "is  a  kind 
of  linguistic  excrescence  which,  like  a  wart  or 
a  boil,  is  neither  useful  nor  beautiful."  How- 


230  H.    G.   WELLS 

ever,  he  tells  of  a  very  amusing  conversation  be- 
tween the  landlord  of  a  country  inn  and  an 
Essex  rustic  in  which  the  use  of  this  stupid 
contortion  of  speech  is  very  quaintly  exhibited  : 

He  walked  into  the  bar,  and  surprised  to 
find  mine  host  in  solitary  state,  exclaimed, 
"  What  all  alone  together,  bor  ?  " 

44  Yes,"  replied  the  landlord,  in  no  wise 
astonished  at  this  extraordinary  expression, 
*'  the  missus  has  gone  to  Colchester  together." 

"  Did  my  missus  go  with  her  ?  ''  asked  the 
rustic. 

"  No,"  replied  the  landlord,  "  she  went  by 
herself." 

It  is  a  pleasure  to  hear  the  antiquated  words 
and  phrases  which  the  countryman  employs 
in  his  evening  gossip  at  the  out-of-the-way  ale- 
house. The  very  kind  of  inn  which  Goldsmith 
has  lovingly  described  : — 

Where  greybeard  mirth  and  smiling  toil  retired, 
Where  village  statesmen  talked  with  looks  profound 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 

Into  such  a  house  I  remember,  some  years  ago, 
being  driven  by  a  wild  night  of  wind,  rain,  and 
pitchy  darkness,  on  the  road  at  White  Roding, 
and  the  cheerful  blaze  of  the  wood  fire  with  its 
aromatic  exhalations,  and  the  rustic  group 
around  it,  as  I  entered,  were  a  most  welcome 
contrast  to  the  illimitable  and  melancholy  black- 
ness without.  Saddle-weary,  wet  and  hungry 
as  I  was,  I  had  no  intention  of  being  conducted 
to  the  best  parlour  of  this  small  inn  to  endure 


THE   ESSEX   OF  H.   G.   WELLS      231 

the  family  heirlooms  in  the  shape  of  anti- 
macassars and  photographs  of  "  Gaffer "  and 
"  Gammer "  Gumble.  I  always  make  it  my 
rule  to  sit  at  the  common  board  at  such  a  humble 
hostel,  for  I  have  learnt  through  bitter  experience 
that  where  there's  life  there's  fire,  or  in  other 
words  the  best  parlour  is  probably  damp  and 
forlorn  as  the  event  of  a  fire  there  is  an  uncommon 
thing.  The  thing  to  do  is  to  march  into  the 
common  room  and  ensconce  yourself  in  the 
chimney-corner,  or  you  will  be  led  into  chill 
dungeon  to  await  supper  to  the  accompaniment 
of  hissing  sticks  and  most  pungent  blue  smoke 
disputing  a  passage  up  the  damp  chimney. 

One  rather  mournful  incident  remains  with 
me  regarding  the  inn  at  White  Roding.  A  coffin 
was  carried  upstairs  during  the  evening  with  a 
good  deal  of  rustic  hurly-bulloo,  and  I  was 
surprised  to  notice  that  the  shape  was  not 
familiar  but  ridged  and  gabled  like  the  double 
roof  of  a  house.  I  think  the  ridged  coffin  was 
common  in  former  ages,  and  this  ancient  shape 
is  supposed  to  resist  much  longer  the  weight  of 
the  earth  above  it.  On  the  East  Coast  down 
Yarmouth  way  I  have  seen  a  coffin  shaped  like  a 
duck-punt ;  the  boat  shape  is  a  peculiar  form 

which  is  now  seldom  seen. 

*  *  *  * 

Most  writers  set  their  backgrounds  most 
carelessly — a  village  is  any  old  village,  a  country- 
side is  a  place  of  grass  and  lanes  and  trees — 


232  H.   G.   WELLS 

just  that  and  nothing  more.  With  Wells  it  is 
different.  He  is  not  just  content  with  labels ; 
he  sees  that  place,  with  its  inevitable  manners 
and  customs,  may  become  knit  in  with  a  man's 
flesh  and  blood ;  may  cunningly  mould  and 
succour  him. 

The  way  in  which  our  land  and  we  are  inter- 
fused and  are  part  of  the  same  thing  constantly 
finds  an  echo  in  his  work.  It  is  a  very  dominant 
note  in  "Mr.  Britling."  In  "Mr.  Britling " 
there  are  many  passages  which  show  H.  G.  W.'s 
"  deep  irrational  love  "  for  the  homely  miracle 
of  things  that  never  change.  It  is  the  land  which 
abides  and  is  real.  Listen  to  Wells  defending 
the  charges  made  by  Mr.  Van  der  Pant  that 
Essex  is  a  dull,  inefficient  county,  with  miserable 
roads,  badly  lit  houses,  lazy  workmen,  and  poorly 
reared  pigs  : 

"  He  set  himself  to  explain  to  Mr.  Van  der 
Pant  firstly  that  these  things  did  not  matter 
in  the  slightest  degree,  the  national  attention, 
the  national  interest  ran  in  other  directions ; 
and  secondly  that  they  were,  as  a  matter  of  fact 
and  on  the  whole,  merits  slightly  disguised. 
He  produced  a  pleasant  theory  that  England  is 
really  not  the  Englishman's  field,  it  is  his  breed- 
ing place,  his  resting  place,  a  place  not  for 
efficiency  but  good  humour.  If  Mr.  Van  der 
Pant  were  to  make  inquiries  he  would  find  there 
was  scarcely  a  home  in  Matching's  Easy  that 
had  not  sent  some  energetic  representative  out 


THE   ESSEX   OF  H.   G.   WELLS      233 

of  England  to  become  one  of  the  English  of  the 
world.  England  was  the  last  place  in  which 
English  energy  was  spent.  These  hedges,  these 
dilatory  roads  were  full  of  associations.  There 
was  a  road  that  turned  aside  near  Market  Saffron 
to  avoid  Turk's  wood ;  it  had  been  called 
Turk's  wood  first  in  the  fourteenth  century 
after  a  man  of  that  name.  He  quoted  Chesterton's 
happy  verses  to  justify  these  winding  lanes  : 

The  road  turned  first  towards  the  left, 
Where  Perkin's  quarry  made  the  cleft ; 
The  path  turned  next  towards  the  right, 
Because  the  mastiff  used  to  bite     .... 

And  again  : 

And  I  should  say  they  wound  about 
To  find  the  town  of  Roundabout, 
The  merry  town  of  Roundabout 
That  makes  the  world  go  round. 

If  our  easy-going  ways  hampered  a  hard 
efficiency,  they  did  at  least  develop  humour  and 
humanity.  Our  diplomacy  at  any  rate  had  not 
failed  us " 

Throughout  "  Mr.  Britling  "  we  note  that  the 
author  with  a  half-unconscious  art  voices  his 
own  tender  attachment  for  that  trodden  nook 
of  Essex  about  home  at  Easton  Glebe  near 
Dunmow.  It  is  the  old  things  he  loves ;  it  is 
in  celebrating  them  that  he  rises  to  sudden 
heights  : 

"  Nobody  planned  the  British  estate  system, 
nobody  planned  the  British  aristocratic  system, 
nobody  planned  the  confounded  Constitution, 
it  came  about,  it  was  like  layer  after  layer 


234  H.   G.   WELLS 

wrapping  round  an  agate,  but  you  see  it  came 
about  so  happily  in  a  way,  it  so  suited  the 
climate  and  the  temperament  of  our  people 
and  our  island,  it  was  on  the  whole  so  cosy,  that 
our  people  settled  down  into  it,  you  can't  help 
settling  down  into  it,  they  had  already  settled 
down  by  the  days  of  Queen  Anne,  and  Heaven 
knows  if  we  shall  ever  really  get  away  again." 

The  Rev.  G.  Montagu  Benton,  of  Saffron 
Walden,  has  kindly  given  me  some  interesting 
information  about  Little  Easton,  which  is 
especially  devoted  to  Wells's  most  personal  story, 
"  Mr.  Britling  "  : 

"  He  had  seen  thatched  and  timbered  cottages, 
and  half-a-dozen  inns  with  creaking  signs. 
He  had  seen  a  fat  vicar  driving  himself  along  a 
grassy  lane  in  a  governess  cart  drawn  by  a 
fat  grey  pony.  It  wasn't  like  any  reality  he 
had  ever  known.  It  was  like  travelling  in 
literature." 

The  "  fat  vicar  "  is  very  possibly  the  former 
rector  of  Little  Easton,  Rev.  Henry  Symonds. 
We  meet  with  the  ample  and  genial  vicar  again 
as  Mr.  Dimple  (p.  36),  and  there  can  be  little 
doubt  that  this  is  an  exact  portrayal,  for  the 
mannerisms  of  speech  are  closely  imitated  by 
Wells. 

"  There  was  some  amiable  sparring  between 
the  worthy  man  and  Mr.  Britling  about  bringing 
Mr.  Direck  to  church  on  Sunday  morning.  '  He's 
terribly  Lax,'  said  Mr.  Dimple  to  Mr.  Direck, 


THE   ESSEX   OF  H.   G.   WELLS      235 

smiling  radiantly.  '  Terribly  Lax.  But  then 
nowadays  Everybody  is  so  Lax.  And  he's 
very  Good  to  my  Coal  Club  ;  I  don't  know  what 
we  should  do  without  him.  So  I  just  admonish 
him.  And  if  he  doesn't  go  to  church,  well, 
anyhow  he  doesn't  go  anywhere  else.  He  may 
be  a  poor  churchman,  but  anyhow  he's  not  a 
dissenter.  .  .  .'  ' 

The  side  chapel  devoted  to  the  "  Mainstay  " 
family  described  on  p.  36  is  to  be  seen  in  Little 
Easton  church,  although  on  inspection  the  real 
name  is  found  to  be  Maynard. 

'*  There  were  also  mediaeval  brasses  of  parish 
priests,  and  a  marble  crusader  and  his  lady  of 
some  extinguished  family  which  had  ruled 
Hatching's  Easy  before  the  Mainstays  came." 

The  "  extinguished  family "  were  the 
Bourchiers,  Earls  of  Essex.  Easton  Lodge  was 
originally  built  about  1550,  although  most  of  the 
building  was  destroyed  by  fire  and  rebuilt  about 
1845. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

SOME  LITERARY  LANDMARKS 

THE  cycle  and  motor  car  and  railway  are  no 
doubt  serviceable  to  modern  ends.  They  enable 
one,  where  the  world  is  distressed  by  stucco-faced 
villas  and  sad-faced  people,  to  spin  by  more 
rapidly,  but  somehow  the  dust  and  turmoil  of 
the  engine  of  travel  seems  to  kill  all  romance. 
However,  the  hero  of  "  The  Wheels  of  Chance  " — 
Hoopdriver — rode  off  into  Surrey  on  an  ancient 
velocipede  in  search  of  spring  and  rose-coloured 
dreams  and  was  successful  up  to  a  certain  point. 
But  he  found  disillusionment  too,  like  most  of  us. 
Perhaps  if  Hoopdriver  had  left  the  bicycle  at 
home,  and  taken  to  the  road  in  the  old  way  on 
foot,  with  staff  and  wallet,  it  would  have  been 
better  for  his  soul.  On  foot  he  might  have 
pressed  England  to  his  heart,  a  thing  which  is 
very  difficult  to  do  on  a  bicycle  with  a  cramping 
sensation  about  the  knees  and  calves.  But, 
sad  to  relate,  he  was  thinking  of  pressing  a 
chance  met  young  lady  in  grey  to  that  vital 
organ  of  his  body,  and  that  is  where  all  the  mis- 
chief started.  It  was  a  dainty,  willowy  nymph 
mounted  on  a  bicycle  which  caused  Hoopdriver 
to  miss  : 

Taffy  dancing  through  the  fern 
To  lead  the  Surrey  spring  again. 

236 


LITERARY  LANDMARKS  237 

But  there  is  one  great  merit  in  our  railways, 
as  Hilaire  Belloc  has  pointed  out — they  are 
trenches  which  drain  our  modern  marsh  .  .  . 
"  for  you  have  but  to  avoid  railways,  even  by  five 
miles,  and  you  can  get  more  peace  than  would 
fill  a  nosebag.  All  the  world  is  my  garden  since 
they  built  railways,  and  gave  me  leave  to  keep 
off  them." 

For  my  part  I  prefer  Taffy  to  Wells's  young 
lady  in  rationals.  You  are  not  acquainted  with 
the  fair  Taffy,  reader  ?  You  must  read  Kipling's 
'*  Just  So  Stories."  However,  I  am  beating  the 
Devil  round  the  gooseberry  bush — getting  away 
from  my  subject. 

It  is  my  purpose  in  this  chapter  to  wander 
afield  in  the  odd  corners  of  Surrey  and  Kent 
which  have  served  as  a  background  for  so  many 
of  Wells's  novels  and  stories.  First  we  will  follow 
in  the  tracks  of  Hoopdriver  and  observe  some  of 
the  features  of  the  countryside  he  passed  through. 
The  first  landmark  of  the  tour  which  is  to  be 
noted  is  the  "  Green  Man  "  Inn  on  the  top  of 
Putney  Hill.  Here  it  was  that  the  heathkeeper 
watched  the  awkward  Hoopdriver  fall  off  his 
machine  and  here  in  a  tone  of  friendly  and 
determined  controversy  he  discussed  with  him 
the  various  methods  of  dismounting.  The 
"  Green  Man "  was  a  highwayman's  house  of 
call  in  the  dear  dead  days  of  powder  and  patches 
and  pistols.  Opposite  the  inn  is  the  old  wooden 
pound  for  wandering  cattle.  It  was  at  the 


238  H.   G.   WELLS 

"  Marquis  of  Granby  "  at  Esher  that  Hoopdriver 
was  surprised  by  a  red,  moist  and  angry  middle- 
aged  cyclist  who  was  cursed  with  a  contemplative 
disposition  and  an  energetic  temperament.  It 
has  come  into  my  mind  that  the  young  Wells  has 
here  painted  unconsciously  a  faithful  picture  of 
the  Wells  of  to-day — the  Wells  who  is  subject 
to  moods,  as  he  has  described  in  Mr.  Britling, 
when  he  is  afflicted  with  a  sudden  desire  to 
insult  his  best  friends.  This  thought  was  revived 
in  my  mind  on  reading  the  Rt.  Hon.  C.  F.  G. 
Masterman's  reproof :  "  For  all  his  amazing 
success  I  doubt  if  Mr.  Wells  is  a  happy  man. 
And  approaching  a  man  normally  companionable, 
hospitable,  and  brilliant  in  conversation,  such  a 
friend  may  suddenly  find  a  whip  struck  across 
his  face,  and  a  series  of  insults  and  stinging  sar- 
casms thrown  at  his  attempts  at  conversation. 
The  same  course  produces  strange  and  regret- 
table flarings  in  correspondence  in  the  daily 
Press." 

The  old  church  behind  the  "Bear  Inn"  at 
Esher  contains  a  roomy  royal  pew,  "  like  a  box 
at  the  opera,"  as  Mr.  Charles  G.  Harper  has 
remarked,  and  "  the  huge  boots  worn  by  the 
post-boy  who  drove  the  fugitive  King  of  the 
French  to  Claremont  in  1848  are  kept  in  a  glass 
in  the  hall  of  the  '  Bear.'  " 

Come  we  now  back  to  Hoopdriver,  who  has 
now  made  his  way  to  Godalming,  which  any 
Surrey  man  of  the  soil  will  tell  you  is  called 


LITERARY   LANDMARKS  239 

"  Godliman."  The  streets  are  narrow  and 
astonishingly  uneven  with  granite  setts,  and  it  was 
here  that  Hoopdriver  cursed  the  "  mechanic 
artes "  which  had  furnished  him  with  "  the 
perfectly  sound,  if  a  little  old-fashioned " 
boneshaker,  and  returned  to  Shank's  mare  as  a 
method  of  progression.  He  entered  Godalming 
on  his  feet,  for  the  road  through  that  delightful 
town  is  beyond  dispute  the  vilest  in  the  world, 
a  mere  tumult  of  road  metal,  a  way  of  peaks 
and  precipices  ;  and,  after  a  successful  experi- 
ment with  cider  at  the  "  Woolpack,"he  pushed  on 
to  Milford. 

Guildford  has  a  position  of  singular  charm  on 
the  declivity  of  a  hill  which  rolls  up  from  the 
eastern  bank  of  the  river  Wey.  The  High 
Street  climbs  steeply  from  the  Bridge  over  the 
river  for  a  half  mile  in  an  easterly  direction. 
Looking  up  the  highly  picturesque  High  Street 
dominated  by  the  projecting  clock  (dated  1683) 
of  the  Guildhall,  we  are  reminded  that  Hoopdriver 
"  whose  feeling  for  gradients  was  unnaturally 
exalted,"  watched  with  his  heart  in  his  mouth 
44  a  cyclist  ride  down  it,  like  a  fly  crawling 
down  a  window-pane." 

There  are  many  wonderful  things  in  Guildford. 
As,  for  instance,  the  Castle  Keep,  from  the  top 
of  which  Hoopdriver  "  looked  down  over  the 
clustering  red  roofs  of  the  town  and  the  tower  of 
the  church,  and  then  going  to  the  southern  side 
sat  down  and  lit  a  Red  Herring  cigarette,  and 


240  H.   G.   WELLS 

stared  away  south  over  the  old  bramble-bearing, 
fern-beset  ruin,  at  the  waves  of  blue  upland 
that  rose,  one  behind  another,  across  the  Weald, 
to  the  hazy  altitude  of  Hindhead  and  Butser." 
A  walk  from  Guildford  of  about  two  miles  along 
the  main  road  brings  the  pilgrim  to  Merrow, 
and  those  who  can  appreciate  the  extraordinary 
links  between  the  soul  of  man  and  the  influence 
of  his  environment  should  not  fail  to  read 
Rudyard  Kipling's  story  of  the  Neolithic  man 
and  his  little  daughter  Taffimai  who  lived 
"  cavily  in  a  cave  "  on  the  down,  and  if  one  is 
prepared  to  take  into  account  all  the  hints  in  the 
story  one  may  I  think  come  very  near  to  the 
beaver-swamp  and  the  spot  at  the  Wagai  river 
where  Tegumai  speared  the  carp-fish  : 

Then  beavers  built  in  Broadstonebrook 
And  made  a  swamp  where  Bramley  stands  ; 
And  bears  from  there  would  come  and  look 
For  Taffimai  where  Shamley  stands. 

The  noise  of  the  world  does  not  touch  Merrow 
Down.  One  might  almost  imagine  that  even  the 
tax-gatherer  does  not  penetrate  to  this  wholly 
rural  spot,  and  the  place  seems  as  Pagan  as  when 
"  the  bison  used  to  roam  on  it  "  a  thousand  years 
ago.  That  is  how  it  impressed  me  at  any  rate. 
I  spent  a  week  here  tramping  about  the  bridle 
tracks  and  soon  began  to  feel  quite  heathenish 
myself.  It  was  a  peculiar  luxury  to  feel  so  very 
lonely,  and  when  darkness  came  I  forgot  all  about 
Sunday  and  Civilisation.  The  next  morning  my 
collar  had  begun  to  irritate  me  a  little,  and  I 


LITERARY  LANDMARKS  241 

laughed  to  myself  and  thought  it  must  be  the  first 
wave  of  Paganism  sweeping  over  me.  But  that 
collar  had  to  come  off  and  I  started  out  breathing 
freely  without  neck  ornaments  of  any  kind,  and 
looking,  I  knew  full  well,  very  disreputable. 
However,  I  consoled  myself  with  the  wisdom  of 
Alexander  Smith,  who  once  wrote  :  "  Civilisa- 
tion is  like  a  soldier's  stock,  it  makes  you  carry 
your  head  a  good  deal  higher,  makes  the  angels 
weep  a  little  more  at  your  fantastic  tricks,  and 
half  suffocates  you  the  while." 

I  penetrated  to  the  bar-parlour  of  the  "  Horse 
and  Groom  "  Inn  at  Merrow,  the  front  of  which 
proclaims  that  the  building  was  raised  in  1615, 
and  there  met  a  botanist  who  had  just  found  a 
flower  of  the  Fly  Orchis — a  curious  little  purplish 
brown  blossom  astonishingly  resembling  a  fly 
hanging  on  to  a  stalk.  He  informed  me  the 
flower  was  not  easy  to  find,  but  that  a  patient 
search  on  Merrow  generally  turned  up  a  specimen. 

Hoopdriver  missed  the  wonderful  network  of 
lanes  lying  between  the  Portsmouth  and  Epsom 
Roads  which  tend  to  one  point  around 
Leatherhead.  But  Wells's  hero  was  engaged 
in  the  pursuit  of  Cupid,  and  you  can't  even  keep 
the  rogue  out  of  a  cycling  tour  in  Surrey.  Again, 
he  might  have  explored  the  Coldharbour  Road 
from  Dorking,  made  the  stiff  ascent  of  Boar  Hill, 
and  after  gliding  through  Coldharbour,  run 
around  the  southern  slope  of  Leith  Hill,  until  a 
turn  to  the  right  would  have  taken  him  to 

B 


242  H.   G.   WELLS 

Friday  Street,  built  of  the  margin  of  a  "  hammer- 
pond."  Friday  Street  might  almost  be  called  a 
cameo  of  Swiss-like  scenery,  for  the  sudden  and 
steep  fir-clad  hills  on  the  north  are  Swiss  both 
in  imagination  and  actual  details.  In  the  "  wild 
wet  forest  "  between  Friday  Street  and  Abinger 
Bottom  is  the  swampy  bed  of  some  ancient 
foundry-pond,  a  place  of  pilgrimage  for  the 
botanist  and  amateur  gardener  in  search  of 
aquatic  flowers.  Wooton  House,  beyond 
"  Wotton  Hatch  "  Inn,  is  not  far  away.  Here 
John  Evelyn  was  born  in  1620.  A  little  to  the 
right  of  the  inn  stands  Evelyn's  church  crowning 
a  pleasing  wooded  mound,  where  he  received  his 
earliest  education.  He  has  written  in  his 
Diary,  under  the  date  of  1624,  "  I  was  not 
initiated  into  any  rudiments  till  I  was  four  years 
of  age,  and  then  one  Frier  taught  us  at  the  church- 
porch  of  Wotton."  It  is  probable  that  an 
upper-room  once  existed  above  the  porch  which 
was  used  as  a  village  school  in  those  days,  but 
there  is  no  trace  of  such  a  chamber  now.  Evelyn 
died  in  London  in  1796,  and  on  his  epitaph  is 
written  his  final  dictum  on  life  :  "  All  is  vanity 
which  is  not  honest ;  there  is  no  solid  wisdom 
but  in  real  piety."  From  the  "  Wotton  Hatch  " 
Inn  (it  was  called  the  "  Evelyn  Arms  "  in  those 
good  old  days  before  the  fret  and  clangour  of 
hurrying  motor  cars  robbed  the  place  of  its  tran- 
quil dreams),  the  road  runs  down  to  the  four 
cross-roads  to  the  beautiful  Crossways  Farm, 


LITERARY   LANDMARKS  243 

which  is  a  pefect  specimen  of  an  early  Jacobean 
house  with  a  gabled  porch.  The  room  above 
the  porch  with  its  weather-beaten,  lichened 
covered  colourings  is  very  picturesque,  and  the 
roof  is  a  marvel  of  Horsham  slabs.  This  house 
suggested  to  George  Meredith  the  title  of 
"  Diana  of  the  Crossways." 

At  the  crossways  the  road  runs  right  to  Abinger 
Hall  and  on  the  left  descends  past  a  "  hammer- 
pond  "  to  Abinger,  where  the  pilgrim  will  find 
an  old-fashioned  roadside  hostelry. 

Abinger  Hammer  now  has  an  air  of  seclusion, 
but  it  is  evident  by  the  dam-heads  on  the 
Tillingbourne  at  this  spot  that  it  was  once  a  centre 
of  the  Surrey  iron  foundries.  The  Tillingbourne 
almost  invades  the  road  on  approaching  Gomshall 
and  just  leaves  a  slice  of  land  which  is  occupied 
by  the  "  Compasses,"  a  jolly  little  country  inn 
which  perhaps  suggested  the  "  Potwell  Inn " 
where  Mr.  Polly  fished  for  dace  under  the  pollard 
willow.  Anyhow  the  pilgrim  will  find  Mr.  Polly's 
staple  meal  here — "  Cold  sirloin  for  choice.  And 
nutbrown  brew  and  wheaten  bread "  .  .  . 
well,  if  it  is  not  of  the  same  substance  as  in  Mr. 
Polly's  days  the  imagination  must  supply  the 
XXXs  to  the  ale  and  the  good  savour  of  blameless 
bread  to  the  meal. 

From  Gomshall  the  pilgrim  will  make  his  way 
to  Shere,  which  figures  in  "  The  Passionate 
Friends,"  and  is  justly  accounted  one  of  the 
prettiest  villages  in  Surrey.  On  the  left  of  the 


244  H.   G.   WELLS 

road,  which  passes  through  an  avenue  of  elms, 
is  an  ancient  mill  which  has  "  clacked  and 
ground  her  corn  ever  since  Domesday  Book," 
and  on  the  right  the  Netley  House  estate. 

The  environment  of  Shere  is  unquestionably 
the  most  rich  and  varied  in  wood  and  slope  and 
hollow  in  England.  To  the  north  are  the 
precipitous  chalk  hills,  garnished  with  hanging 
woods ;  and  southwards  the  land  rolls  up  over 
a  hundred  secluded  hollows  to  the  rugged  crest 
upon  which  the  old  windmill  stands  like  a  sentinel 
over  Ewhurst.  The  church  of  St.  James  has 
associations  with  Wells's  "  The  Passionate 
Friends,"  for  it  was  here  that  Stratton  and 
Rachel  More  were  married.  There  is  a  particular 
charm  about  this  old  church  which  must  have 
appealed  to  Wells,  and  the  west  gallery,  with  the 
ancient  brick  stairs  on  the  outside,  may  have 
induced  him  to  introduce  the  church  into  his 
story.  A  fine  coffin-like  Xlllth  century  chest 
in  the  south  porch  deserves  to  be  mentioned. 
Notice,  too,  the  photograph  of  Emma  Digging, 
a  faithful  servant  to  this  church,  who  died  in 
1907 ;  she  is  portrayed  with  her  key  of  office 
and  looks  like  an  illustration  from  Dickens 
which  has  come  adrift.  Among  other  striking 
features  the  pilgrim  should  note  is  the  beautiful 
west  doorway  (Xlllth  century) ;  the  restored 
brass  to  John  Touchett,  and  the  traces  of  a 
hermit's  cell  on  the  north  side  of  the  chancel. 

The  "  White  Horse  "  Inn  is  a  XVIth  century 


246  H.   G.   WELLS 

building,  with  fine  early  fireplaces,  and  I  will 
gladly  name  it  to  my  readers  who  are  satisfied 
with  old-fashioned  comfort  and  good  fare.  It  is 
so  comfortable  that  I  spent  a  whole  wet  day 
there  on  one  of  my  tramps  without  a  tinge  of 
regret,  and  I  venture  to  draw  on  my  diary  to 
show  that  my  time  was  very  pleasant : 

"  Here  am  I  sitting  in  the  '  White  Horse ' 
at  Shere.  Outside  there  is  no  sun  or  pleasantness 
to  make  me  restless  or  self-conscious  about  my 
laziness.  Indeed,  if  the  sun  was  shining  it  would 
be  all  the  same,  for  I  enjoy  loafing.  Like  Mr. 
Dooley,  I  have  the  c  judeecal  timperament,' 
and  far  down  in  my  heart  I  have  a  great  repug- 
nance for  the  straight  and  narrow  path  of  life's 
serious  work  ....  well,  then  all  is  quiet 
and  leisurely  this  morning.  The  windows  show 
me  a  very  dark,  wet-laden  street,  and  the  steady 
rain  falling  on  the  gravel  and  paving-stones  with 
a  delightful  4  swish '  which  comes  so  pleasingly 
to  ears  which  are  not  compelled  to  be  wading 
about  in  it.  There  are,  of  course,  different  kinds 
of  rain,  of  different  degrees  of  pleasantness. 
This  is  a  heavy  downpour,  which  looks  as  if  it 
will  continue  masterfully  all  day,  and  no  one 
but  a  fool  would  want  to  be  out  in  it.  Yet  it 
entices  me  and  I  am  half  inclined  to  walk 
through  it.  I  understand  my  debt  to  it,  and  do 
not  think  of  it  as  a  nuisance  for  it  is  doing  excel- 
lent work  in  washing  as  well  as  stimulating 
growth.  However,  there  is  a  soft  warm  rain — 


LITERARY  LANDMARKS  247 

*  mothery  '  rain  as  they  say  in  Surrey — which 
is  wholly  agreeable,  and  every  man  walking, 
riding  or  driving  can  enjoy  himself  out  in  such  fine 
drizzle,  for  it  makes  all  things  happy  and  fragrant. 

"  To  be  out  walking  in  the  rain,  of  course, 
is  the  right  thing  for  a  literary  tramp.  Alone 
in  the  rain  a  man  can  laugh  tumultuously  and  sing 
at  the  top  of  his  voice  without  undue  notice  being 
taken  of  him.  And  here  am  I  sitting  in  the 
4  White  Horse '  like  any  miserable  millionaire 
who  is  afraid  to  wet  his  feet.  It  is  really  too  mean 
of  me.  Deep  within  me  the  rain  seems  to  awaken 
a  longing  for  the  wild  wet  primeval  woods.  Every 
time  a  furious  gust  of  wind  drives  the  flying  water 
against  the  window  I  feel  something — my  soul, 
myself,  I  know  not  what — thrill  and  turn  over 
and  settle  again  .  .  . 

"  Therefore,  I  returned  to  the  comfortable 
armchair  by  the  window,  to  study  the  rain  in  all 
its  marvellous  moods  and  graces. 

"  Mere  laziness  ?  No,  not  that.  The  rain  is  a 
thing  for  lyrics,  and  as  I  sat  there  I  wrote  several 
canticles  and  sung  them  to  the  head  waiter,  who 
liked  them  very  much,  being  abnormally  deaf. 

"  The  first  one  was  a  parody  with  a  flavour  of 
Belloc : 

I  swing  along  the  Surrey  lanes 
And  sing  loud  songs  whene'er  it  rains  ; 
The  furious  gust's  rampageous  swoop 
Shall  never  cause  my  heart  to  stoop. 
Earth-wine  is  good  and  ale  also  ; 
I,dance  :  I  sing  :  I  sway  : 
Benedicamus  Domino  : 
I  take  my  bath  that  day." 


248  H.   G.    WELLS 

Also  (but  I  cannot  go  on  quoting  my  majestic 
verse  in  a  book  of  this  kind),  I  imagined  myself 
one  of  those  supercilious  literary  dandies — one  of 
the  Yellow  Book  fellows  with  fawn-like  eyes  : — 

Open  the  window  wide  : 

Give  me  an  amber  scented  cigarette  : 

Bring  that  copy  of  Flaubert  and  fourteen 

Great  fat  yellow  cushions, 

Then,  my  brain  afire, 

And  my  eyes  looking  through  opal-tinted  clouds, 

I'll  sit  and  listen  to  the  mad,  wild  rain, 

And  laugh  and  curse  as  each  gust 

Suddenly  twists  it  in  upon  my  face  ; 

Stare  at  faunish-eyed  girl  next  door 

Who  always  wears  Venetian  silk  stockings 

And  walks  with  imperious  step 

Like  some  barbarous  Eastern  Queen — 

Watch  the  gutters  fill 

Until  I  see  them  seeth  tumultuously 

With  a  thousand  opium  demons 

Racing,  racing,  racing  to  hell 

Down  the  next  open  grating. 

Yes,  the  <c  White  Horse"  is  that  kind  of  house 
that  receives  a  man  like  a  friend.  There  is  an 
open  chimney  in  the  smoking  room  with  deep 
ingle  seats,  and  a  spacious  fireplace  with  a  XVIIth 
century  fireback  and  dogs ;  here  beech  logs 
send  their  pleasant  fragrance  to  the  flames  during 
the  long  winter  evenings.  The  walls  are  embell- 
ished with  paintings  from  the  brush  of  the 
landlord,  Mr.  R.  J.  Askew,  who  follows  the  recog- 
nised school  of  artists  formed  in  this  spot,  of  whom 
Mr.  Leader  is  the  principal  figure.  The  sign  board 
of  the  inn  is  a  happy  idea  and  is  the  work  of  Mr. 
Askew.  It  depicts  an  impossible  white  and  woolly 
wild  horse  with  a  super-curly  mane. 

"  The  White  Horse  "  Inn  was  the  subject  of  a 


LITERARY  LANDMARKS  249 

Royal     Academy     picture     by     G.      Hillyard 

Swinstead  in  1904. 

»*•*•* 

It  is  on  the  London  and  Folkestone  road 
from  Ashford  to  Faversham,  by  Eastwell  and 
Sheldwich,  that  we  must  look  for  most  of  the 
topographical  hints  which  Wells  throws  out  in 
"  Tono-Bungay."  "  Bladesover  "  itself  is  not 
given  on  the  map,  but  I  think  Eastwell  Park 
may  be  determined  upon  as  the  old  mansion  that 
served  as  a  model  for  Wells's  "  great  house " 
in  the  novel.  But  the  description  of  *'  Blades- 
over  "  is  a  composite  picture ;  a  good  deal  of  it 
deriving  from  Up  Park  near  Petersfield.  How- 
ever, here  is  Wells's  description : 

"  Bladesover  lies  up  on  the  Kentish  Downs, 
eight  miles  perhaps  from  Ashborough ;  and  its 
old  pavilion,  a  little  wooden  parody  of  the  temple 
of  Vesta  at  Tibur,  upon  the  hill  crest  behind  the 
house,  commands  in  theory  at  least  a  view  of 
either  sea,  of  the  Channel  southward  and  the 
Thames  to  the  north-east.  The  park  is  the  second 
largest  in  Kent,  finely  wooded  with  well-placed 
beeches,  many  elms  and  some  sweet  chestnuts, 
abounding  in  little  valleys  and  hollows  of  bracken, 
with  springs  and  a  stream  and  three  fine  ponds 
and  multitudes  of  fallow  deer." 

Ashford  town  itself  is  a  scene  in  "  Tono- 
Bungay,"  where  it  is  called  Ashborough,  and  we 
are  told  that  "  the  distance  from  Chatham  to 
Bladesover  House  is  almost  exactly  seventeen 


250  H.   G.    WELLS 

miles,"  which  coincides  with  the  distance  between 
Chatham  and  Eastwell.  The  views  of  Eastwell 
Park  are  of  exquisite  beauty,  and  from  the  north- 
west, where  the  grounds  rise  to  a  considerable 
elevation,  the  eye  ranges  over  a  mass  of  richly- 
wooded  slopes  to  the  silver  line  of  the  English 
Channel,  and  beyond  the  felicitous  valley  of 
the  Medway  to  Sheerness,  and  the  broken 
waves  of  the  Nore. 

Aubrey  relates  a  curious  tradition  of  one  of  the 
Earls  of  Winchelsea,  "  who,"  he  says,  "  at  East- 
well  in  Kent,  felled  down  a  most  curious  grove 
of  oaks,  near  his  noble  Seat,  and  gave  the  first 
Blow  with  his  own  Hands.  Shortly  after  his 
Countess  died  in  her  Bed  suddenly,  and  his 
eldest  Son,  the  Lord  Maidstone,  was  killed  at 
Sea  by  a  Cannon  Bullet.  It  is  a  common  Notion 
that  a  strange  Noise  proceeds  from  a  falling 
Oak,  so  loud  as  to  be  heard  at  half  a  Mile  distant, 
as  if  it  were  the  Genius  of  the  Oak  lamenting." 
(Surrey,  ii,  34.)  To  this  superstition  Ovid 
elegantly  refers — 

The  trembling  oak  with  sighs  of  sorrow  wept, 
And  deadly  paleness  o'er  its  branches  crept ; 
But  when  the  band  profane  a  wound  bestow'd, 
Quick  from  the  yawning  side  its  life-blood  flow'd  : 

It  was  to  Eastwell,  says  a  curious  tradition,  that 
a  natural  son  of  Richard  III  fled  after  the  battle 
of  Bosworth.  "  Sir  Thomas  Moyle  discovered 
him  working,  in  the  disguise  of  a  bricklayer, 
and  permitted  him  to  build  himself  a  small  hut 
in  a  field  near  Eastwell  Place,  where,  it  is 


LITERARY  LANDMARKS  251 

supposed,  he  died  in  1550,  aged  81.  (There  is  an 
interesting  correspondence,  tending  to  confirm 
the  truth  of  the  story,  in  the  Gentleman's 
Magazine,  July  and  August,  1767.)  In  the 
Eastwell  register  occurs  a  remarkable  entry, 
prefaced  by  a  sign  always  employed  whenever 
any  one  of  noble  family  was  buried : 
"  Rychard  Plantagenet  was  buryed  the  22d  daye  of 
December,  anno  ut  supra"  A  tomb  in  the 
chancel,  without  inscription  or  brasses,  has 
been  pointed  out  as  the  Plantagenet's,  but  it  is 
uncertain  whether  he  was  buried  in  the  church  or 
churchyard.  His  hut  was  pulled  down,  temp. 
James  II,  and  its  site  is  occupied  by  a  modern 
house.  A  spring  which  wells  out  near  it  is  still 
called  "  Plantagenet's  Well." 

In  mentioning  "  Tono-Bungay,"  which  is 
Wells's  most  perfect  literary  monument,  it  is 
interesting  to  note  that  the  pathetic  death 
scene  of  Uncle  Ponderevo  at  St.  Jean  Pierre  de 
la  Porte  is  a  remembrance  of  George  Gissing's 

death,  and  Wells's  last  visit  to  him. 
*  *  *  * 

Wells  is  a  Kentish  man  and  in  all  his  early 
work  we  obtain  glimpses  of  the  feeling  he  had  for 
the  "  Garden  of  England,"  famed  for  hops,  apples, 
cherries,  cricket,  fearless  men,  and  pretty  girls. 
The  "  Men  of  Kent "  claimed,  as  representing 
the  oldest  Saxon  Kingdom,  to  lead  the  van  in 
battle,  and  since  the  Norman  invasion  it  has  been 
their  boast  that  they  forced  the  Conqueror,  at 


252  H.   G.   WELLS 

the  point  of  the  sword,  to  acknowledge  all  their 
valued  customs,  and  their  right  to  the  proud 
motto,  Invicta.  So  Wordsworth  called  them  the 
"  Vanguard  of  Liberty,"  and  it  seems  appropriate 
that  Wells,  who  has  always  flaunted  his  liberty 
so  defiantly  and  defended  it  so  pugnaciously, 
should  have  been  reared  on  Kentish  soil.  There 
is  an  unforgettable  and  most  delicately  fashioned 
picture  of  Aldington  Knoll  beneath  a  rising 
moon  in  "  Mr.  Skelmersdale  in  Fairyland,"  and 
we  feel  that  he  must  have  watched  such  scenes 
until  they  had  become  part  of  his  life. 

"  Jupiter  was  great  and  splendid  above  the 
moon,  and  in  the  north  and  north-west  the 
sky  was  green  and  vividly  bright  over  the  sunken 
sun.  The  Knoll  stands  out  bare  and  bleak 
under  the  sky,  but  surrounded  at  a  little  distance 
by  dark  thickets,  and  as  I  went  up  towards  it 
there  was  a  mighty  starting  and  scampering  of 
ghostly  or  quite  invisible  rabbits.  Just  over  the 
crown  of  the  Knoll,  but  nowhere  else,  was  a 
multitudinous  thin  trumpeting  of  midges.  The 
Knoll  is,  I  believe,  an  artificial  mound,  the 
tumulus  of  some  great  pre-historic  chieftain, 
and  surely  no  man  ever  chose  a  more  spacious 
prospect  for  a  sepulchre.  Eastward  one  sees  along 
the  hills  to  Hythe,  and  thence  across  the  Channel 
to  where,  thirty  miles  and  more,  perhaps,  away, 
the  great  white  lights  by  Gris  Nez  and  Boulogne 
wink  and  pass  and  shine.  Westward  lies  the 
whole  tumbled  valley  of  the  Weald,  visible  as 


LITERARY  LANDMARKS  253 

far  as  Hindhead  and  Leith  Hill,  and  the  valley 
of  the  Stour  opens  the  Downs  in  the  north  to 
interminable  hills  beyond  Wye.  All  Romney 
Marsh  lies  southward  at  one's  feet,  Dymchurch 
and  Romney  and  Lydd,  Hastings  and  its  hill 
are  in  the  middle  distance,  and  the  hills  multiply 
vaguely  far  beyond  where  Eastbourne  rolls  up 
to  Beachy  Head." 

It  would  be  easy  to  multiply  instances 
illustrating  the  value  of  place  in  Wells's  novels. 
It  was  the  spirit  of  place  in  the  soul  of  the  inimit- 
able Kipps  which  saved  him  from  the  futility  of 
a  marriage  with  the  snobbish  Helen  Walsingham 
and  led  him  back  to  the  charming  little  house- 
maid, Ann  Pornick : 

"  Then  suddenly,  with  extraordinary  distinct- 
ness, his  heart  cried  out  for  Ann,  and  he  saw  her  as 
he  had  seen  her  at  New  Romney,  sitting  amidst  the 
yellow  sea-poppies  with  the  sunlight  on  her  face. 
His  heart  called  out  for  her  in  the  darkness  as 
one  calls  for  rescue.  He  knew,  as  though  he  had 
known  it  always,  that  he  loved  Helen  no  more." 
For  Kipps'  life  and  the  meaning  of  life  became 
interwoven  with  place  and  the  meaning  of  place. 
His  visit  to  New  Romney  to  break  the  news  of 
his  engagement  to  his  Uncle  and  Aunt  was  the 
thing  which  caused  him  to  shirk  the  match 
with  Helen.  He  returned  to  the  scenes  of  his 
childhood  with  eyes  sharpened  by  exile  and  found 
that  fourth  dimension  which  always  tugs  at  the 
heart  of  the  native.  "He  had  been  thinking 


254  H.   G.   WELLS 

curious  things  ;  whether,  after  all,  the  atmosphere 
of  New  Romney  and  the  Marsh  had  not  some 
difference,  some  faint  impalpable  quality  that  was 
missing  in  the  great  and  fashionable  world  of 
Folkestone  behind  there  on  the  hill.  Here  there 
was  a  homeliness,  a  familiarity.  He  had  noted 
as  he  passed  that  old  Mr.  Cliffordown's  gate 
had  been  mended  with  a  fresh  piece  of  string. 
In  Folkestone  he  didn't  take  notice,  and  he 
didn't  care  if  they  built  three  hundred  houses." 

Wells  used  the  spirit  of  place  with  vehement 
effect  in  the  first  chapters  of  "  The  War  in  the 
Air."  The  description  of  the  small  greengrocer's 
shop  at  Bun  Hill  suggests  Bromley  and  the 
author's  birth-place,  and  as  a  matter  of  fact 
it  is  so  accurate  that  the  reader  may  be  readily 
guided  to  the  actual  house,  which  is  still  standing 
in  the  High  Street. 

Home,  atmosphere,  place,  these  are  great  words 
— they  stand  for  thoughts  which  are  deeply 
interfused  in  us,  and  they  are  inseparable  from  a 
sense  sublime  and  an  immeasurable  influence  : — 

A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 

All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 

And  rolls  through  all  things. 


THE     END 


INDEX 


Abinger  Hammer,  243. 
Aldington  Knoll,  252. 
"  Ann  Veronica,"  15. 
"  Anticipations,"  7,  8. 
Atmosphere,  86. 

Barrie,  J.  M.,  43. 

Belloc,  H.,  54,  152. 

Black  Notley,  215. 

Bladesover  House,  249. 

"  Boon,"  30. 

Bourchiers  (Earls  of  Essex),  235. 

Bromley,  31. 

Brooke,  Rupert,  122. 

Catholic  Church,  153. 
Chesterton,  G.  K.,  156. 
Chesterton,  Cecil,  158. 
"  Child's  Garden  of  Verses,  A," 

83. 

Claverings,  216. 
Coffins  (Ancient),  231. 
Coggeshall,  225. 
Constable,  209. 
Crossways  Farm,  242. 

Dark,  Sidney,  84,  122. 

Davidson,  John,  19. 

"  Diana  of  the  Crossways,"  243. 

Dickens,  17. 

Dunmow,  211,  213,  233. 

Easton  Glebe,  217,  233. 

Eastwell,  250. 

Essex  Anecdotes,  222. 

,,       Dialect,  224. 

,,       Wheat,  209. 

,,       Rustics,  217,  218,  220. 
Esher,  238. 
Evelyn,  John,  242. 


"  First  Men  in  the  Moon,  The," 

89-  ,M 

"  Floor  Games,"  81. 

Gerarde,  227. 
Gissing,  George.  69,  251. 
Gomshall,  243. 
Guildford,  239. 

Hainault  Forest,  209. 

"  Hammerpond  Park  Burglary. 

The,"  29. 

Harper,  Charles  G.,  238. 
Henley  House  School,  39- 
Henley  House  Magazine,  39. 
"  History  of  Mr.   Polly,   The," 

107,  126,  243. 
Hoopdriver,  95,  236,  237. 
Horsham  Slabs,  243. 
Humour,  41,  74. 

"Invisible  Man,  The,"  196,  207. 

James,  Henry,  30. 

John  o'  London's  Weekly,  123. 

Kipling  Rudyard,  6,  157. 
"  Kipps,"  176-183,  253. 

Lamb,  Charles,  209. 
Little  Easton,  234. 
"  Love    and    Mr.     Lewisham," 
88,  162. 

Maidenhead,  135. 
Market  Saffron,  226. 
"  Marriage,"  184. 
Matching's  Easy,  220,  232. 
Merrow  Down,  240. 
Midhurst,  34,  36. 


255 


256 


INDEX 


Midhurst  Grammar  School,  38. 
"  Modern  Utopia,  A,"  15,  65. 
"  Mr.  Britling  Sees  it  Through," 
13,  21,  25,  85,  216,  232. 

"  New  Machiavelli,  The,"   156. 
New  Romney,  156,  253. 

"  Outline    of    Wells "    (Sidney 
Dark),  157. 

"  Passionate  Friends,  The,"  139, 

243,  244. 
Penshurst,  34. 
"  Phoenix,  The,"  44. 

Rabelaisian  Spirit,  160. 

Ray,  John,  215. 

Raymond,  E.  T.,  123. 

"  Russia^in  the  Shadows,"  97- 

106. 
Rustic    Dialect    and    Manners, 

224,  225,  226,  229. 
Rustic  Simplicity,  218. 

Saffron  Walden,  227. 

"  Salvaging  of  Civilization,"  n. 

"  Secret    Places   of   the    Heart, 

The,"  127. 
Shaw,  57,  159. 
Shore,  148,  244. 
"  Stag    Inn "    (Little    Easton), 


Style,  93. 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis,  83. 

Surrey  Manners   and   Customs, 

22. 

Sussex  Downs,  94. 
Sussex  Ale,  95. 

"  Time  Machine,  The,"  45,  88. 

Tomlinson,  H.  M.,  92. 

"  Tono-Bungay,"  35,  249,  251. 

Up  Park,  39. 

Vaughan,  John,  213. 

"  Veteran  Cricketer,   The,"   31. 

Walton,  Izaak,  209. 

"  War  in  the  Air,  The,"  ro,  31, 

254- 

"  War  of  the  Worlds,  The,"  88. 
Warwick,  Countess  of,  216. 
Wells,  Geoffrey,  H.,  36. 
Wells,  Joseph,  31. 
"  Wheels  of  Chance,  The,"  70, 

236. 

"  When  the  Sleeper  Wakes,"  51. 
Wilde,  Oscar,  53,  56. 
Windsor,  36. 
"  Wonderful  Visit,  The,"  45. 

Yeats,  W.  B.,  no. 


